


There Comes A Time (In A Young Man's Life)

by QWERTYouAndMe



Category: The 1975 (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Sex, Friends With Benefits (Who Are In Love But They're Too Afraid To Say It), George is engaged, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Matty is upset, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 29,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26377006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QWERTYouAndMe/pseuds/QWERTYouAndMe
Summary: They didn’t do this. They didn’t do girls; not seriously. If one of them was single, the other one was single too. When they found girls who stayed, they didn’t stay long. And it didn’t matter; it wasn’t important that the girls came and went because they were one another’s constants. Matty had George and George had Matty and the girls came and went and George stayed.Matty had George and George had Matty and the girls came and went and George stayed but then something happened, something changed, Matty must have fucked up somewhere because something had seismically shifted — and he chose her.
Relationships: George Daniel/Matthew Healy
Comments: 13
Kudos: 31





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> for L, without whom, none of this would have been possible. you are the light of every day, my love xx  
> [here's the playlist for this fic, listen in order x](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2AeDgTZF5GHqm7ghkl28tV?si=MbtAMpLSRQi5GVv4YV4nPQ)

Matty just walked.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew he was going. He thought that if he kept going forever, maybe he could run away from this feeling in his chest. Right now, they were in step beside each other, him and the feeling; it was inside him, seated deep within his ribcage, pulsating alongside his heart, stealing his breath before it could reach his lungs. 

It couldn’t be this way. George was having him on. He was playing a joke. Matty would come back in the morning — or whenever he decided he could face going back — and George would ask him where he’s been, put the kettle on, and say,  _ ‘Sorry, mate, I was just messing’, _ and Matty would breathe out and the hole in his chest would fill in again and he would forget about it. It would sting, but he’d forget about it. George would make him a cup of tea. He would let it go cold. It would be something they never talked about again. The message would be clear —  _ that’s not funny. _

His heartbeat echoed in his empty chest. Every thud rang the words in his mind afresh. 

_ He chose her. _

That was what it meant. Matty knew it; George didn’t say it like it held that much weight, but Matty understood. The fact that he made the decision; had the idea, thought it through, weighed it up and decided it was the right thing to do — it all meant one thing. He chose her. 

_ He chose her.  _

This would have been easier if he had a vice to fall back on. Remotely, George had taken care of making sure he had none left. His vices were deadly, and then they were George. Now he had none left, no prospects for new ones, and no desire to turn back to his old ones. 

That was a lie. He wanted to go back to George. 

He wanted, more than anything in the world, to go back to George. To go home and have George be there; to be wherever George was — so, home. And for him to say,  _ sorry, mate, I was just messing _ , so Matty could fall into his arms and cry and beat George’s chest with his fists like an oak tree and George would just stand there like he always did, like he did every single time before, and he’d wrap his arms around him and shush him gently, card his fingers through his hair, and Matty would scream and cry and shout at him to  _ never ever fucking say that shit again, why would you trick me like that? That’s so cruel, that’s so unfair, this isn’t fucking fair, George— _

But no. It would make him upset. 

There was nothing to say. There were no words. For once in his life, he had no words. What was he supposed to say? What did you say when everything went wrong and you were the only one who could see?

Apparently, Matty thought the appropriate answer, in the moment, was  _ okay _ . 

George was quiet, almost taken aback by Matty’s long pause and small voice. And then —  _ and fucking then _ — he laughed. He  _ laughed _ . Like he was joking, like he was  _ amused  _ by how Matty just heard the sound of his heart cracking in half inside his chest.

“Thanks for the stamp of approval, mate,” George chuckled, and Matty searched desperately for his gaze but could never quite meet it. “Glad to know you’re pleased.”

“Course I am,” Matty replied, but he could hear, even from a million miles away inside his own head, how hollow his voice sounded. “Congratulations. You’re good for her.”

There was a long moment of silence. They stared at each other across the table and Matty felt like they had never been further apart in their entire lives; not even when he was somewhere and George was not. Not even when everything had fallen down, left a vast wall of debris between them for the two of them to pick over and try to sort out for months and months and months — nothing had torn a void between them like this. Matty didn’t know if George even felt it. For him, this table may well have been just a table. To Matty, it was all of space and the universe, all of the void space that hung in between the planets and the stars and the galaxies now also hung in between them. 

But to George, it was just a table. 

He sat with it all day like a stone in his chest, like a barb in his flesh. He laughed with George like they always did. He put his face on and told himself that everything was fine. Everything  _ was  _ fine, because why wouldn’t it be? He was happy for them. He  _ was _ . 

He stood, now, on some unfamiliar street corner, somehow simultaneously empty, devoid of all feeling and purpose, and full, carrying stones upon stones in his chest, harbouring this vile parasite that was gnawing on his heart. He was wounded; he was bleeding out onto the concrete. They would find him in the morning in a pool of his own blood — it was filling his lungs, rising up his throat, dripping from the corners of his mouth. 

He stumbled back against the wall of the building behind him and slid down it. It scratched his back. He didn’t care. He put his head between his knees and tried not to vomit as he ran the scene over in his mind again. 

George said, “I’m engaged.”

Matty felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “Okay.”

George  _ laughed _ . “Thanks for the stamp of approval, mate. Glad to know you’re pleased.”

“Course I am,” Matty’s voice was hollow. “Congratulations. You’re good for her.”

George was good for everyone. George was good. He was home. He was good. He was good for her. 

He was good for  _ her _ . This wasn’t about Matty — George was good  _ for her _ . 

They didn’t do this. They didn’t do girls; not seriously. If one of them was single, the other one was single too. When they found girls who stayed, they didn’t stay long. And it didn’t matter; it wasn’t important that the girls came and went because they were one another’s constants. Matty had George and George had Matty and the girls came and went and George stayed.

Matty had George and George had Matty and the girls came and went and George stayed but then something happened,  _ something  _ changed, Matty must have fucked up somewhere because something had seismically shifted — and _ he chose her. _

It wouldn’t compute. Matty didn’t understand it. 

_ “I’m engaged.” _

_ “Okay.” _

He was good for her, but he was better for Matty. 

He wondered how much he knew that she didn’t. Did she know how George took his tea? Did she know how to tell when he was stressed? Did she know how he fucked when he was angry? How many times had he made her cum? Was it more times than Matty? Could she drop to her knees and make him shake till she felt it in the hand in her hair?

_ No _ . Fucking no. No fucking more. He pressed the heels of his hands into his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t think about George like that anymore. The sex was finished now —  _ everything  _ was finished now. There was no more fucking around, because he was serious about his woman now. There could be no fucking more of it. It started as a temporary thing — every time was meant to be the last time, until it just… wasn’t any more. Every time was meant to be the last time, until it became,  _ just until next time. _ If only Matty had known that the last time really was the  _ last  _ time. 

He would have bitten down harder on George’s neck, scratched his back like it would mean something, feebly try to imprint any lasting trace of himself on George’s skin so that when he was on top of her every night for the rest of their lives he would never,  _ never _ , be able to forget that once, he was like that with Matty. For years — for something like  _ ten fucking years _ — he was like that with Matty, consistently Matty, longer than any girl. After every girl, there was Matty. Alongside every girl, there was Matty. Always, if there was George, there was Matty.

And now, he had chosen her. 

Car lights slowed then stilled by him. He winced; he heard the hum of a window coming down, and he narrowed his eyes at the figure in the car. 

“Sorry,” they began, and he thought it was an awfully weak beginning. “It’s just… I’ve come past three times tonight, and you’ve been there the whole time. Do you need a lift somewhere? I can take you to a shelter, or the hospital, or—”

“I’m not homeless,” he said, as if it made a difference. He couldn’t find the room inside him to be embarrassed. 

“Still. Is there somewhere I can take you? I’m off duty; I won’t charge you.”

He winced up at the car again. The yellow light on top was turned off. He supposed that a taxi was a taxi, and if they were offering him a free ride, he might as well take it. And if they were planning on turning down some back street and killing him, it didn’t matter anyway. He would let them. It would hurt less. 

He stood up and almost immediately fell over again. They were watching him with concern in their eyes. He stumbled against the car door. 

“Sir, do you need me to take you to the hospital?”

Matty almost laughed at that. He wondered if they could sew up this hole inside him.  _ Hello, I’m dying of a broken heart. I know how it sounds, but my best mate’s engaged.  _

He didn’t know where to go; usually, he would always go to George. How was he supposed to do that now? He couldn’t turn up at George’s door and ask him to heal a wound he had created — and might not even know was there. 

“Sir?”

He was panicking now. Where the fuck was he supposed to go? If not George, usually he would go to Ross for a cuddle, or to Adam for advice. But he didn’t need either of those things; neither of them would help. He needed George. All that could fix him now was George. 

“Sir, if you—”

He cut the driver off by reeling off some address. Once the words had left his mouth he wasn’t even sure what he’d said. 

“Is that your home address?” They asked carefully. 

“I—” Matty looked at his hands. He watched them shake. He didn’t think he had a home anymore. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. Let’s go see, shall we?”

Matty tried to smile at them. Their kindness was noteworthy. He wished he had it in him to actually commend them for it. He couldn’t even smile. He couldn’t cry, either. 

He watched as the roads slowly became more familiar and he recognised where he was, but not where he was going. The block of flats they ended up outside was familiar but he couldn’t understand why. 

“Is this where you live?” They were talking to him carefully again. He hated that he couldn’t answer them. He didn’t live here, he knew that. He must have known someone who did, if he remembered the address. 

“Oh— my... mate—?” He stammered, wracking his brain for which one of his mates it was. Everything felt scattered, like someone had upended his mind onto the floor. He didn’t think Adam lived in a place like this. He was almost glad; Adam had a girlfriend of his own, and Matty would’ve hated to be the wedge in the middle of yet another relationship, because that would make it two in one night. He thanked the driver, rummaged in his wallet and thrust them a tenner, shuffled into the apartment building, bracing himself on the doorway. He didn’t know what number he was going for, but his body took him to a front door anyway, and he knocked, but there was no answer. He wasn’t sure what else to do, so he just waited, sat on the floor and waited. What else could he do? 

Maybe he fell asleep or maybe he lost time, but the next thing that he was consciously aware of was Ross’ hand on his shoulder and his voice repeating his name. Matty looked up at him, blinking against the light. His eyes felt dewy.

“Where were you?” he said, and his voice came out as a scratchy whisper. Ross looked almost ashamed of himself. 

“We went out... The three of us. You weren’t— weren’t there. We had some drinks.” He paused for a long time. Matty looked at him, but didn’t see him. “To celebrate.”

Ross went quiet again. Matty stared at the wall. He knew Ross was watching him, could feel his eyes.

“You know?” he said lowly, and it wasn’t a question, it was a statement. He was right; Matty knew. He knew  _ first _ . “Oh,  _ Matty _ .”

Ross wrapped him in his arms, and Matty wished he could cry. He wanted more than anything to cry, just to cry. Maybe he would be okay if he could just cry. He hated the pity in Ross’ voice, hated the way that he seemed to know, like it was obvious, like it was written on his forehead in big, red letters: _he chose her._

*

Matty arrived at the studio the next day wearing Ross’ clothes. He was exhausted, still very much smarting from the pervious day, and he kept avoiding George’s eyes, though remained hyperaware of his left hand. 

George, similarly, was extremely conscious of how protective Ross was being today. He stopped mid-rehearsal to take off his hoodie and drape it over Matty’s shoulders, because he was shivering. The smile Matty gave him made a spike of jealousy flare in George’s chest. For a split second he considered that, maybe, Matty had turned around in the space of an evening and was already over it. Maybe he hadn’t ever been that bothered; maybe George was just a means to an end. Maybe he was seeing it wrong for all of these years, thinking it meant something when it didn’t, and Matty’s reaction yesterday was out of apathy, not out of hurt.

It hadn’t felt like a means to an end. 

It felt like it meant a lot, actually. George remembered all the times where it had been so much more than just mindless fucking around, the times when it felt like it meant  _ something _ . And yeah, they were  _ just fucking _ , but then Matty would hold his face and gaze into his eyes and kiss him even after they were finished. And it was always them; it wasn’t important that the girls came and went because  _ they were one another’s constants.  _ Matty had George and George had Matty and the girls came and went and Matty stayed.

And now something was different. Something had shifted seismically. George was aware of it; it was offputting, gnawing at him always. He knew what had happened; he knew why Matty was over there with Ross’ clothes on. 

Because he chose her. 

He was adamant that he had made the right decision. No, it wasn’t too quick. No, it wasn’t poorly thought out. Who cared if he’d asked her in the middle of a fight; a last-ditch, desperate, split-second thing, simply throwing the question out there and hoping it stuck. 

It worked; she hadn’t left. 

He was scared of people leaving, scared of being left. He wasn’t scared of being lonely, but scared of being alone. Not that he was alone, because in the end, he always had Matty, but maybe, George thought, that was part of the problem. 

They’d started fucking around when they were just too old to be teenagers. George remembered the day like he’d painted it in oils. He’d been showing Matty some track, something new he’d been working on, and Matty had been dancing around with his vest two sizes too big and his glasses on, and he’d been blowing smoke into the air, and in the half-light, he’d been so beautiful, and George had seen him in a way he never had before, in a way he’d never seen anybody before. So he kissed him — stood up and let Matty gravitate towards him and slid his hands onto his narrow hips, and Matty had let him, and it had just been right, so George had kissed him. 

They had sucked each other off that night, frantic and desperate and clamping hands over their mouths because Matty’s whole family were home. They avoided one another’s eyes, didn’t talk about it in the morning, never talked about it, actually, acted like it never happened until the next time it was happening. They kept forgetting to turn up at one another’s houses actually prepared; in the end they got so impatient to fuck that Matty had stopped mid-kiss and left the house, gone to the drugstore, ran home clutching a bottle of lube, and then they'd had sex — proper sex — for the first time on top of the sheets in George's bed, and they'd been so young, and feeling so intensely, and everything had been so much that they'd just been tangled together there, clutching each other, babbling over and over and over - _ I love you, I love you, I love you _ . And then the sun rose, and when Matty had rolled over in the morning the words stuck in his mouth like glue. he left while George was still asleep. Things were different, and he couldn't handle it, he had freaked out and shut down and dodged his calls for days. It never stopped, but the words did. They had both said it. They both said it so many times, rambled it over and over to one another like a broken litany, and then Matty woke up and it just wasn't right, something inside him said it just wasn't right, and he was scared, he'd been so scared, so scared that he'd left while George was sleeping and they never said it again.

So here they were. Here was George, with all this love and nowhere to put it, and he kept trying to put it with these girls and it never ended up working. He had all this love that had been building up over all these years and he couldn’t let it go because he kept fucking Matty and nothing ever came along that felt more right. So he had all this love and nowhere to put it, and the girls wouldn’t take it, but it was all he could do. They would leave and he would still be left with all this love for  _ someone _ , this love for something, that he had nowhere to put, nothing to do with. It hurt. He couldn’t ignore it; it grew stronger every day. So he tried and he tried to put it with these girls and the girls always, always left, because some part of him was convinced that they knew, they always knew. They saw him with Matty and they knew. And it carried on and carried on and even years later he could never say those words again, and when he became so terrified of the next girl leaving — because she was  _ going to leave _ — he said, ‘marry me.’ 

And she said, “I’m sorry?”

And he said, “Marry me.”

_ She laughed.  _ He said, “I’m serious — marry me. Stay, stay — please, God, stay. I’ll be good to you, honestly, I will. You know I can be good. You know I don’t want to lose you. Marry me.”

She said yes. He was happy. He was so, so happy, too happy to think about what people would say, and he hoped that Matty would be happy, because if Matty thought it was right, it was right. 

He didn’t think so. George didn’t listen, he just got angry. He didn’t shout or make a scene or even look at Matty differently, but something in his chest flared up and his immediate thought response was  _ ‘you are wrong’.  _ If Matty was wrong, it meant George was doing the right thing, and it meant that he could carry on, that he wouldn’t lose her, that he could spend the rest of his life trying to figure out how to fit this square peg into a round hole, how to take this love he had inside him and change it’s nature so that he could give it all to her.

He was wrong. George knew it. Matty was wrong, but he would come round, George was sure of it. He was wrong, George was right; he wanted to get married and he wanted it to be to this woman, and if Matty thought he shouldn’t, then it was because he was wrong. 

It hurt that he didn’t go for drinks with them. He didn’t even read the texts. George wanted him there most of all. It hurt that he was wearing Ross’ clothes. It hurt that George wasn’t sure if they’d spent the night together — and in what capacity. He scolded himself for caring; he and Matty had fucked around loads of times, but that was _ all it ever was. _ They’d fucked around with other people in between, and it had never mattered because they always came back to each other. If Matty wanted to fuck Ross, George didn’t care. He could fuck Ross all he wanted. He was getting married, for fuck’s sake. Why should he care?

But the fact was that he  _ did  _ care. He caught himself staring at Matty’s neck so often, trying to figure out if he had left those bruises or of they were new, and once he was so enraptured by the thought that he brought his stick down and almost missed his cymbal. 

They were both aware of the need to have a conversation. The tension between them was palpable, and, if nothing else, it was putting everyone else on edge. 

Once they were done, Matty made a beeline for the door. George followed him, ignored the looks he got from his bandmates, caught his wrist in the hallway. 

“Matty,” he started, and then had no idea how to continue. He watched Matty stare at the hand around his wrist, then slowly pull away. 

“What do you want?” He sounded tired. George wanted a lot of things. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. 

He was angry. Really angry. Angry at Matty. Angry at him for assuming that George was doing the wrong thing. And he was sad, because he wanted Matty to support him, wanted to be in his good books. And, he was confused. He was supposed to be happy; this was meant to be one of the happiest times of his  _ life _ . He was engaged. He was meant to be joyous, excited to plan a wedding and then get married and spend the rest of his life beside this woman who he  _ loved _ ; this woman that he had all this love for. This woman he was putting all of this love onto, because it had to go somewhere.

But he wasn’t. He just felt flat, felt mostly resentful of Matty for not being happy for him, thus giving him reason to be happy as well. He had all this love inside him and _ he knew where it was meant to go _ . He felt like he couldn’t put it somewhere else unless Matty thought it was okay. It should really belong to him.

“I— Yesterday.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Matty’s voice was small, shaky. George wanted to bang his head against the wall. He didn’t particularly want to talk about it either. 

“Matty, I still—”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it. Not now, George. Just… give me some fucking time, would you?” He turned to leave. George caught his wrist again. This time, Matty didn’t pull away. 

He got close, got right into Matty’s space, stood so he had to crane his neck to look at him. The air in between them was electric, like it always was, like it had been the first time, and this was actually so much like the first time — with Matty in his too-big clothes — that it was only second nature for George to lean down and press his lips against Matty’s. It felt right to have Matty’s lips against his own, his hands clutching George’s jacket. He wondered how he could ever kiss anybody else again.

It was over almost as soon as it had started. Matty stayed there, gazing up at George with his wide eyes, still bright even though he was tired. George had his hand fisted in Matty’s shirt. It was actually Ross’ shirt. 

“We can’t do this,” Matty whispered, voice trembling. His eyes were shining. “Anymore. We— George, you’re  _ engaged _ .”

He spat out the last word like it was poison. It went straight through George like a bullet, and for the first time since he’d asked her the question, reality hit him like a train. 

He was engaged. 

_ We can’t do this anymore. You’re engaged.  _

Matty left him stood there in the hallway with the words ringing in his mind. 

_ You’re engaged. You’re engaged. You’re engaged.  _

_ We can’t do this anymore. You’re engaged.  _

*

They were really good, for a while. 

George restrained himself. No more kissing Matty in hallways or following him out of rehearsals, no texting him late at night, no staring at his arse or his hips or his hands or his neck or his mouth or—

And then she went away. 

She went on a spa weekend with her mum. She said, do something nice. Have a proper celebration. She looked at him like he knew; that pity on her face that George knew so well, and he hated it every single time. She was looking at him like she knew. George convinced himself there was nothing to know. 

He was just going to Matty’s house to talk. That was what he told himself. They needed to talk about it, really. 

When George had followed Matty out of rehearsal, after they’d kissed in the hallway, Ross had tailed him out there, grabbed his shoulder after Matty had left and said, “Listen. I love you, George. You know I love you. I want you to be happy. I support you, but mate, you’re blind if you can’t see it. I had him crying on my couch all fucking night.”

George went quiet. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground. Ross clapped him on the shoulder. 

“At the very least, go and talk to him. Apologise for building him up all this time. He’s clearly more beat up by this whole thing than you.” His tone was reproachful now. George’s skin crawled. He carried it with him for days, tried not to think too much about it, about the implications of Matty crying on Ross’ couch all night because George was engaged. 

He was just going to talk. That was what he told himself. They were just going to talk about it. And then he was at Matty’s door and his collarbones were peeking out from under his shirt and George wanted to touch him so badly, wanted to kiss him, wanted to grip his hips and scratch down his back and bite his neck. He sighed — he was just here to talk.

He said, “She’s away.”

Matty looked hesitant, almost crestfallen, and he hesitated for a minute before pulling George inside by the wrist and all but slamming him against the door, kissing him messily and desperately like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. George held him like everything else was shattering. Maybe it was. They were not here to talk anymore. 

“The last time,” Matty said as he tugged frantically at George’s shirt buttons, like all that mattered was getting his clothes off. His fingers were chilly. George held one of Matty’s hands steady against his chest, trying to come to terms with the fact that he’d never feel that cold touch again. “This is the last time.”

And George agreed, this was the last time, because the time before this couldn’t count, how could it? They didn’t know the time before this was the last time.  _ This _ , this was the last time. The real last time. They had to do it just once more, for closure, if nothing else. To fuck it out of their systems, to tie up the strings.

He tried not to think about it too much, but he was hyperaware as Matty pushed him down onto his bed that he would never do that again. When George slicked his fingers and kissed Matty’s thighs, he savoured every twitch of his skin, every drag of nails against his scalp. When Matty sunk down onto his cock, George gripped his hips hard enough to bruise, some thought passing through his mind about leaving a mark so that Matty would remember. The problem, he supposed, was that bruises fade. 

It was by no means emotional sex. They didn’t have emotional sex. It wasn’t in their modus operandi. This wasn’t emotional sex. No such thing as ‘goodbye sex’ — it wasn’t goodbye at all. The end of an era, the last in a set of decisions. 

George wasn’t emotional. This was just for closure. This was the last time; a chance for them to fuck it out of their systems, to tie up the strings. That was all. 

But then it was the morning, and the light was starting to leak in through the shutters and dapple over Matty’s sleeping body; his love-bitten collarbones, the smooth, flat expanse of his stomach, his sharp, tattooed hipbone. George was awake — or sort of awake — gazing over his body, as if it was his to look at. He had to force himself to wrench his eyes away, to find his scattered clothes, to kiss Matty’s temple one last time before turning to leave. This was how he imagined Matty felt, after the first time.

As his hand touched the doorknob, he heard Matty shift in bed. It took all of George’s resolve not to turn around. And he wasn’t emotional, but then Matty murmured his name in that husky, sleepy voice of his, and George glanced back at him. His hair stuck up at all wild angles; he looked tired and warm and comfortable and George wanted nothing more than to climb back into bed with him and press his face against his skin, breathe the scent of Matty in deep and fall asleep in his bed again. 

“Stay,” he croaked, and George felt that familiar tug in his chest that he only felt when he knew he should go to Matty. He crawled back into his bed and hid his face in Matty’s shoulder, didn’t leave his house for the rest of the weekend, and when she came back, she said ‘did you have a good time?’ and she smiled at him like she knew, and his skin crawled and his stomach flipped and he told himself that there was nothing to know. There was nothing to know anymore, because it was finished, they were finished, that was the last time. They weren’t doing it anymore. They couldn’t do it anymore. George was engaged. 

*

Time went by, and they were good. They stayed away from each other. Things slowly went a little bit back to normal; they could just laugh again, just shoot the shit, just do nothing like they used to, and it was no longer tinged with sadness. The longing looks across the studio became fewer and fewer, until eventually, they stopped entirely. George’s chest still hurt, but they had stopped. They were being good. He told himself it was for the best, because  _ he was engaged _ , and he had to stop thinking about Matty like this, had to focus on giving this love to his fiancee.

But old habits die hard, and then they won an award.

It was tradition. For as long as they could remember, they’d done it. Awards show, go back to the hotel, sex. Win or lose, it was always the same. Awards show: suits, drinking, adrenaline. Sex: filthy, desperate, ritualistic. 

This time was no different. They kissed when the presenter called out their name, quick and exhilarating, and they kissed in the car on the way back to the hotel, needy and grabby and hot, and they kissed in the lift, they kissed in the hallway, they kissed in Matty’s hotel room. They tugged at one another’s clothes. George backed him against the door and kissed him so hard that his head spun. All that existed in the world was the two of them.

The realisation dawned on them both at the same time. They were both half-naked already, flushed all down their necks, fancy jackets and shirts and ties discarded without care onto the floor. Matty was on top of George, lips attached to his collarbone, and at the same moment, they had looked at each other, and realised, and they both fell about laughing. 

Maybe it was the endorphin high. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was just that this was so ridiculous, because how could they have forgotten?

They kissed again even through their giggling. George’s mouth was all that existed in the world. Matty clung to him somewhat more desperately now that he was aware that, yet again, this was  _ the last time _ . 

“Do you want to stop?” He asked tentatively, hovering above George on shaky forearms. 

“Do you?” 

A long moment of silence. Matty closed his eyes. No, he didn’t. Not ever. He never wanted to stop. He wanted the rest of his life to look like this swanky hotel room with George taking his clothes off in it. 

“Do  _ you _ ?” He asked again. George sighed heavily, cupped his jaw with one hand, kissed him softly. 

The sex that came after was a confusing mixture of melancholy and giggly. Yeah, they were giggling, but they were both upset, and it showed in their deliberate, slow movements, in the reverent and plentiful kisses that George pressed to every available inch of Matty’s skin, in the way that Matty chanted George’s name like a mantra as he came, so that neither of them could forget exactly what was happening. 

This  _ had to be _ the last time. 

Matty watched George from the bed as he fished his crumpled shirt from the floor and fiddled with the buttons. Something inside him ached. He told himself that he couldn’t have George anymore, that they couldn’t do this anymore, and he was fine with it. They couldn’t have sex anymore, but that didn’t mean they weren’t still friends. Of course they were. They would always be. Wouldn’t they?

“Why don’t you stay?” He said it too quickly. George turned to look at him. He looked beautiful, even with his shirt half-done up and his hair still a mess. “Just have a drink. We can sit up for a bit. Beats watching TV on your own.”

George’s face broke into a smile. He discarded his shirt, went fishing in Matty’s suitcase for one of his t-shirts, because most of them were stolen anyway, or belonged to both of them. They had always shared clothes. And Matty changed into his pyjama top, and they raided the minibar like they were kids at a posh hotel for the first time again, and they sat on the bed well into the night, giggling and talking in hushed voices, like they were doing something rebellious. Maybe they were.

2AM came and went without them even noticing. They were both becoming more tipsy and more sleepy with every passing minute, and even though they hadn’t intended to, they ended up falling into each other, tangled up in the sheets and one another’s limbs, and, to George, moving to his own room was too gargantuan a task, especially when he was surrounded by everything Matty. So, he stayed, stayed still and let Matty fidget around him like he always did when they were in bed together, and eventually their conversation petered out into sleepy mumbles, and then into nothing. 

*

It was late. 

Matty hadn’t realised just how late it was. He was bad with that; working until the sun came up. Usually, it was George who reminded him of the time, told him to go to bed. 

He’d been desperate to finally finish this track, because it had been bugging him for weeks, and he was on a roll with it, and with nobody to tell him to stop and go to sleep, he just kept going. When he finished it, he was so happy, so relieved, that he had to call George and tell him, because he knew George would be happy as well. It was only as the phone was ringing that Matty noticed the time. George would be sleeping with his girlfriend — his  _ finacee _ — and Matty was about to end the call, shoot George an apologetic text, and go to bed, but then he actually answered.

“Mate, it’s four o’clock in the morning.” George’s voice came husky and warm down the phone. Matty shivered. “Are you alright?”

Suddenly very self conscious, Matty pulled his legs up into his chair. “Sorry. Didn’t realise how late it was. I was going to hang up, actually, just go back to sleep, I can tell you—”

“No.” He could hear George sitting up, the shift of his sheets. “What’s the matter?”

He slurred all his words together; what he actually said was more like ‘whassama’er?’. Matty had forgotten how much he loved George’s sleepy voice. 

“It’s alright,” he said, as if that answered anything. “I finished that track. Just wanted to tell you.”

George was quiet for a long time, and then he smiled right down the phone. Matty could all but see him grinning, rubbing a hand over his face, shaking his head fondly. It made warmth bloom in his chest. 

“Have you been up all night?” 

His voice carried laughter. It was infectious; Matty couldn’t help but giggle. “Yeah.”

George laughed, and for a moment, it was like everything was normal again, and Matty almost caught himself telling George to come to his flat right now and listen, but on the other end of the phone, muffled and far away, was a woman’s voice. George spoke to her in hushed tones that Matty couldn’t quite make out. He could hear the shuffling of an opening door. There was that stone in his chest again. 

“Fucking hell, you need to sleep, Matty.” George’s voice dropped to a murmur, and Matty wanted to say something about how he could go, if he was keeping George up, which he knew for a fact he was, and then George said, “Are you in bed?”

And it sounded so much like a phone sex question — at least to Matty’s fatigue-addled mind — that he giggled like a child. 

“No. Neither are you, though, so we’re even.”

He could all but hear George rolling his eyes. He hugged his knees to his chest a little tighter, but then he reasoned that George was probably right, and he should get into bed. He kicked off his joggers and threw his t-shirt onto the floor, crawled into bed, struggled to get the charger into his phone. It sounded like George was making coffee. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

“‘M in bed now,” he murmured, exhaustion hitting him like a train now that he was nestled in the sheets. 

“And you’re suddenly tired?” George asked, smirk in his voice. In response, Matty only groaned and pulled the duvet around himself tighter. After all these years of friendship, George knew every single little thing about him. They had shared a bed enough times for him to know that Matty was an unstoppable force until the second his head hit the pillow, and then he’d be out like a light.

“Sorry for wakin’ you,” he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. There was a pressure behind his eyes like someone had filled his head with water. “Drivin’ you out of bed.”

“No,” George said, but Matty cut him off. 

“I heard. She was awake.”

They both fell silent, then. Matty didn’t like it; it felt wrong. Maybe he shouldn’t hav brought her up. George sighed heavily on the other end of the phone, then there was some more shuffling, then silence again. 

“Haven’t seen you in ages,” George said finally, and Matty’s chest ached. It used to be that he could invite George over at these insane hours and show him what he’d made, and he would turn up at the door in his big, comfy jumper, and they’d make tea and George would sit there with the headphones on, Matty would stand there anxiously, waiting for what he thought, and always, always, George would smile, and Matty’s chest would bloom with pride, and maybe George would have some changes, but they would always be the perfect thing to do, and they’d stay up till the sun rose talking excitedly about music, eventually fall into bed together, fall asleep on each other, all tangled up and warm, but he had to remind himself that it couldn’t be like that now.

“Saw you yesterday,” he murmured. George snorted another laugh, but his voice sounded sad. 

“You know what I mean.”

Matty sighed, then. “Yeah. Can’t believe you’re gettin’ married.”

“Neither can I…” George trailed off, and Matty wished he could see him. He wished they could be together, just for a bit. One more night. One more  _ last time _ . He wanted to lay on his chest and drift off, wanted to feel utterly surrounded by George, by his warmth and his smell and his presence, didn’t even have the energy to tell himself not to think like that. “You’re gonna be my best man, yeah?”

The ache in Matty’s chest amplified tenfold at the question, at how casual it was, at the thought of him and George standing there on the day, both in their suits, so close, and yet, so far, and most of all, at the way that he immediately answered, “Yeah. Course.”

_ Who else could it be? _ , he wanted to say. And it felt a little conceited, but it was right. There was nobody else it could be. He willed away visions of suits and speeches, of settling George’s nerves on the day, of telling him that he could go through with this, that he should, that it was the right thing to do. His eyes prickled. He squeezed them shut. 

“Yeah,” he said again. “Course.”

He felt sick. He felt disgusting, because it was actually real now. George was getting married and Matty was going to be his best man and he would have to stand there on the day and look happy, act supportive, act like seeing George go through with this wouldn’t be breaking his heart into a million pieces. 

He hung up the phone without saying goodbye, curled himself into his sheets, and sobbed.

*

It was just them left. 

Everyone else had gone to bed, and George didn’t blame them, because today had been long, mostly travelling, and he knew as well as anyone that it was tiring. But of course, they remained, like always, up late and talking nonsense. It was the same as it had been a million night before, but different now in that George was hyperaware that this was his stag weekend, and everything felt wrong.

To his credit, Matty had planned this weekend perfectly. They were staying in a little cabin in the middle of nowhere, and they had no plans, just to spend time with friends and get obscenely high and play video games like they were sixteen again. George appreciated it more than he could even hope to put into words; Matty knew him, knew what he liked, knew that he wouldn’t want a weekend packed with activities, wouldn’t want to be rowdy and raucous and a bit of a twat, out on the town getting plastered, because he wasn’t like that. He could appreciate a night out, but Matty knew he’d always choose something like this. Matty knew everything; knew that he wouldn’t want to be humiliated, wouldn’t want to cause a big scene, wouldn’t want any of the immemorial rituals of rites of passage, because he knew George. 

He struggled to put his appreciation into words. This was so much better than anything else he could have done; Matty apologised when they got here, said it wasn’t much, but George was so happy that he hadn’t felt pressured to organize some big excursion that he’d wanted to kiss Matty right then and there. He was putting George’s needs before anything else; tradition, expectations, pressure. It didn’t matter. This showed that George came first. They didn’t need to talk about it. It was a mutual understanding. 

Some people might call it love. George would search forever to call it anything else. He remembered the last time — the first time, the only time ever. The night they first slept together, young, stupid kids, and he’d been so overwhelmed with emotion, and they’d rambled it over and over to each other, and then he woke in the morning and Matty was gone and they didn’t speak for a week.

It was years ago. George was over it. They did what they did and he pretended there were no feelings involved, he took all the love he had for Matty and he tried to put it with all of these women until finally, one of them would take it. So now he was engaged, and they didn’t do what they did anymore.

He was struggling to come to terms with that. Ever since they’d got here, George had wanted to kiss Matty, wanted to touch him, to just be close to him. He was a Pavlov dog, and this weekend away was his bell; time alone with Matty, even though there were other people here, too, always meant one thing. George had come prepared, just in case, but he’d hung back at Matty’s door as they were all bagsying a room in the cabin — it was still weird for George that they weren’t sharing — and padded into his room, slid a hand onto his waist, and pressed himself up against Matty’s back..

Matty pulled away from him wordlessly.

George tried not to be too disheartened; some part of him had expected the answer to be no. He was engaged, after all.

This was his stag weekend, after all. 

The phrase ‘last night of freedom’ sprung to mind. He’d never understood it before, always thought that if you were choosing to commit the rest of your life to a person, you should love them enough that the  _ being with them _ felt free, rather than the being away. 

He understood, now, though, watching Matty lazily blow smoke into the air, what they meant. He never felt freer than this.

His chest ached. His head was spinning. It was just like they’d done a million times before, just the two of them, smoking in an empty, unfamiliar room, but George knew it was different. It felt different. Matty wasn’t his in the same way anymore, couldn’t be his anymore, and it hurt to think about. He didn’t even know why he was thinking about it now. Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe it was just because it was getting late, and he was tired, and they were silent, so he was free to stew in his thoughts. Unless Matty spoke to him, he would stay there all night.

Things were never awkward between them. They knew each other too well, spent too much time together for it to even be possible. George still thought the air seemed strained. 

He was about to open his mouth to say something, when Matty leaned over and stubbed out the end of his joint into the ashtray on the coffee table, and said, “I’m thinking of going to bed.”

George closed his mouth, simply nodded. It was getting late, and his head was far too hazy to try and fathom up excuses that Matty should stay. He had all weekend, he supposed, to sit in semi-awkward silence while Matty smoked a joint. If this was what their relationship was like now that they weren’t having sex anymore, George didn’t want it.

He watched as Matty almost reluctantly got up, crossed the room to turn off a lamp, looked at George as if expecting him to follow. Some deep-sated part of George wanted to get up and trail behind him, but he remembered Matty pulling away from him when they had arrived, remembered every promise they had made to each other about not doing those things they did anymore. 

“Goodnight,” Matty said, voice catching a little in his throat. He convinced himself it was the smoke. Matty lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, and for a second it looked as if he was going to say something more, but he closed his mouth, nodded once, and he was gone. 

And then, it was just George. 

He told himself he was just going to finish his drink, and he would go to bed. He was three drinks deeper before he even realised. 

This wasn’t right. It wasn’t  _ fair _ . Why was he drinking alone on his stag do? Maybe it was the hurt at being left on his own, by his best man of all people, or maybe it was the alcohol, but he was upset, almost angry. He teetered to his feet, went messily down the hallway, stopped by Matty’s door but changed his mind and moved on, went to Ross instead. He didn’t trust himself around Matty again; what if he said something, or did something, tried to kiss him and made him pull away?

Unsurprisingly, Ross was not pleased to see him, already mostly (or entirely) asleep when George knocked on his door. He said, “Go to bed, stop dicking around.”

That was all it took for George to cave. There were other people here that he could go to, some maybe even still awake, or at least some who would get up to have another drink with him. He didn’t care. He was going to Matty. 

He was hurt, upset to be alone on the first night of his stag weekend — and beneath that, lonely. Desperately, achingly lonely, a void that nobody could fill; not Ross, not any of their friends, not his fiancee,  _ nobody _ .

Almost nobody.

He stood outside the door to Matty’s room for a long, long time. He didn’t want to knock, didn’t want to poke his face through Matty’s door, because what gave him the right? They weren’t allowed to do things like that anymore. The thought made George’s eyes prickle, because so many times in his life, he’d been able to cling to Matty’s side and they’d be quiet and soft and warm together, and then he would feel better. He sniffed maybe too loudly, swiped at his eyes. His face was hot. 

“Matty?” he said to the door, quieter, even, than his normal speaking voice. It was almost like he didn’t want Matty to hear. His head was swimming, spinning around, and his hands felt unsteady, and there was a void in his chest that felt impossibly heavy, twisting with confusion and hurt. 

He prepared himself to walk away. It was late. Matty wouldn’t want to see him now, he went to bed for a reason. George swiped at his eyes again and turned to shuffle down the corridor, bracing himself on the wall, but then the door clicked open behind him. Matty peered out, his hair in a mess and eyes a little bleary. Guilt twisted in George’s stomach, and he was about to stammer over a dismissal, tell him sorry, that it didn’t matter, but Matty said, “Get in here.”

The lights were off in Matty’s room. For a moment, after George closed the door, they were still, stood there in the half-light, and despite George’s teary eyes and hazy head, it felt ridiculously intimate. When Matty turned the light on, he winced. 

“What is it, man?” Matty said. His voice was husky and heavy with sleep. George felt bad.

“Was just— On my own. Didn’t like it.”

He watched Matty’s mouth quirk up in a smile, but then he shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. George couldn’t figure out what Matty was thinking. It made him uncomfortable. He always knew what Matty was thinking.

Matty knew that this was a bad idea. He had promised himself so long ago that they couldn’t do this anymore, and he could see tonight ending with George lying in his bed again, but he couldn’t just leave it, couldn’t let George be like this. He was upset, clearly upset, upset beyond what showed on his face. And he was drunk, a little bit drunker than Matty was when he’d gone to bed, and definitely drunker than Matty was now. He reminded himself that, first and foremost, this weekend and then forever, he was George’s  _ friend _ —  _ just  _ his friend — and what sort of best man would he be if he let the groom be so miserable on his stag night? So he swallowed his pride, pushed away all thoughts of what came before, of what could happen, of the implications of him letting George into his room so late at night. 

“Sit down,” he said, tried not to sound too harsh. He still guided George to sit on his bed, with one hand on the small of his back, and George smiled up at him, and Matty’s chest tightened. He forced himself to ignore it in favour of getting George a little more sober and a little less upset, bringing him a glass of water and standing over him until he drank the whole thing. 

Matty sat down, too, then, and they just sat there for a while, beside one another, silent, both hyperaware that things were different now. How many times had they sat on the same bed, both a little woozy and tired, and not at least ended up sleeping in one another’s arms? Something in Matty’s chest ached for it. 

How many times had George fallen asleep in her arms the same way? Did she know how to take care of him when he was like this?

Maybe it was silly. She was going to be his wife, of course she knew, she would have to know everything. Matty sighed heavily. George’s presence beside him was warm, comfortable, even like this, in this decidedly  _ uncomfortable  _ state of difference. 

He was about to lean on George’s side, but stopped himself, because leaning was a gateway to hugging, which could lead to all sorts of other things, and Matty was a good best friend and a good best man, and he wasn’t going to do anything with George on his stag weekend. He wasn’t going to do anything with George. They weren’t going to do anything anymore. 

George set a hand on his forearm. His touch was warm. Matty wrenched himself free of their little bubble, forced himself to stand up before he could turn to look George in the eye, said, “You need to sober up. I’m going to make you some toast.”

He panicked all the way down the corridor, paced in the kitchen and told himself that he couldn’t let anything happen. He buttered the darkest side of the toast, just like he knew George liked, and then berated himself for thinking, snidely,  _ does she know to do this?  _

It didn’t matter. He didn’t care if she knew. She’d learn.

He opened the door with his hip. George was laid down on the bed — on  _ Matty’s  _ bed — his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling gently and steadily. It reminded Matty with a painful pang of the days, all those years back, when they lived together, how he used to wake George up every morning with a cup of coffee and a warm, gentle touch, how they would always say they were going to move back in together at some point, how that would never happen now. It was the same as then. He set the cup and the plate on the nightstand, perched on the edge of the mattress, and tentatively reached out to touch George’s shoulder. 

George’s dark eyes opened slowly, and he turned over, smiled at Matty. He took in the tea on the nightstand, and Matty’s flushed face, his ever so slightly red eyes, and rolled over onto his back. His warm hand came up to meet Matty’s on his arm, and before Matty could say anything, George was intertwining their fingers. 

Matty jerked his hand away as if George’s touch would burn him. Something twisted just below his ribcage. George looked hurt, and Matty wasn’t sure how to explain, wasn’t sure if he could ever explain why he’d done that, not properly, especially not to George. He sat up. He looked hurt. His eyes were shining, and he kept stammering over words, and Matty wanted to say something so badly, but nothing would come out, so they sat there in this horrifying silence for what felt like ages, and finally, George’s hand found Matty’s again, and their eyes moved from their hands to one another’s faces in sync. 

“Please,” George choked, his throat tight, his voice impossibly tiny. Matty’s chest hurt. “Please, Matty, tonight. Just for tonight. I— Please.”

Matty stilled. George was being dead serious. This wasn’t the whiskey talking. This wasn’t the weed. This was  _ George _ , it was George talking to him and he  _ needed  _ this. Matty could see it in his eyes.

It had been a long, long time since he’d seen George this vulnerable. He couldn’t place how long — months? More than months? A long time. George was usually so calm, so relaxed, so chilled out about things, so if he got upset, it was for good reason. It stung to even think about. 

Yes, he had promised himself that nothing would happen. But taking care of George when he was upset did not count as something happening. Matty would be a shit friend if he let George wallow in self-pity, stag weekend or no stag weekend. Wife or no wife.

“Okay,” he said, finally breaking the silence. George looked at him hopefully. “Alright. Sit up, take a breath, have a drink. We can sit up for a while. Just until you feel better.”

It was the alcohol, Matty told himself even though he knew it was a lie. George had been drinking. That was all. It was the alcohol, it was nothing more than the alcohol, George had been drinking, that was all there was to it. 

He guided George to sit up, rubbed a slow circle between his shoulder blades while he took in deep, deliberate breaths. Matty bit his tongue against any words, because anything that might come out of his mouth would only make it worse. He passed George his toast. Maybe once he ate, he would sober up a bit, and feel better, and they could agree not to talk about this anymore. Matty could try to forget the desperate look in George’s eyes when he said, “Please.” 

He could try to forget those hot, eager fingers, clinging to his own like a child’s. He could try to forget those shining eyes, George’s stuttering breath. He could try to forget. He had to forget. 

They sat beside each other, backs against the headboard, while George sipped his tea. Matty stared straight ahead and tried his best not to think about anything — not George, not George’s wedding, not anything he’d ever done with George, nothing at all. His mind was empty. He was not thinking. 

Letting George curl up against his side was, at this point, muscle memory. He had lifted his arm and started stroking a slow rhythm on George’s shoulder before he even realised he was doing anything. He was about to speak, about to tell George that he should maybe think about going to bed, but then he looked down, and George’s eyes were closed. His eyelashes fanned out against his flushed cheeks, his fingers only loosely cradling his empty cup, and he looked so peaceful, so beautiful, that Matty didn’t ever want to disturb him. George deserved this rest. He deserved the best sleep in the whole world. But it could not be with his head on Matty’s chest. 

“George?” he murmured softly. No response. “George, are you awake?”

George stirred, nuzzled closer to him, and yawned. He started to mumble lowly, words that Matty couldn’t quite make out, but he caught ‘ _ the best… _ ’ and  _ ‘thank you’ _ , and  _ ‘always’. _ It made his heart swell, and he figured that, if George was tired or tipsy enough to talk to himself, he was also tired or tipsy enough to not remember this tomorrow. It didn’t count, Matty reasoned, as breaking his promise not to do anything. Normal, straight, platonic best friends cuddled and rambled sleepily to each other all the time. It didn’t count. He was still being good, his thoughts not even straying anywhere near inappropriate, but then George rolled over a bit, and Matty could hear him clearer. 

“You’ve always took care of me… Y’know me, man. Always… whole life, you’ve taken care of me. Won’t be the same, Matty. She doesn’t take care of me like you do.”

Everything was still, then. Matty didn’t dare breathe. 

George opened his eyes and gazed up at him, and they were strikingly clear. 

“She won’t take care of me like you do,” he repeated, his voice quiet and breathy. Matty closed his eyes and ran George’s words over in his mind, again and again, searching for another possible meaning. 

He knew what George meant. Of course, he knew. 

They had a ritual. For when George was feeling particularly down, when he needed to be vulnerable, they had a ritual, a tradition they followed every time. They’d developed it together, made it fit both of their needs, made it utterly perfect. It was the same every time. It was therapeutic. It did things for George that even Matty didn’t fully understand, but he knew it helped, knew it was what George needed to feel taken care of. He wanted to take care of him. 

George would come to him — it was important that George came to him, not the other way around — and ask very meekly if they could switch it around tonight. Matty would kiss him, shush him, lead him to bed, take off his clothes, kiss every inch of skin he could reach, then fuck him slow and gentle, always kissing, always touching, always reassuring George of how well he was doing. They would be close, always, touching, always. It was the closest they came to the way things were the first time, except, without the words. Sometimes George cried. It was a good cry, a release. Matty held him after and kissed his tears away.

“George,” Matty murmured, shaking his head.  _ He’d promised not to do anything.  _ They couldn’t do anything, they weren’t allowed to do this anymore, George was engaged, this was his stag weekend, they couldn’t, but then George sat up, and he looked the surest Matty had seen him look since they got here. 

“Please,” he whispered, and his eyes were shining. “I’ve tried—  _ she’s  _ tried, it’s just not the same, Matty. It’s never the same as it is with you, darling,  _ please—” _

Matty closed his eyes, then, blew out a long, unsteady breath. 

George wasn’t going to be able to get what he needed anymore. This was a part of their sex life that he couldn’t hope to recreate with his wife. Matty may not have understood all of the psychological aspects of why they did this, but he did know one thing, which was that being on the bottom for a change was a massive step in vulnerability for George, and it could only be for Matty, it could only be them, and it just wouldn’t be the same otherwise. This was something they did, just them. It would never be anybody else’s, just theirs.

And it broke Matty’s heart, tore it into a million pieces, because he knew that George  _ needed  _ this. He needed to be cared for, needed to be looked after in this exact, specific way, it was therapy, he  _ needed  _ it, he _ needed Matty to give it to him.  _

They looked at each other in the dark for a long, long time. Silently, Matty reached across George and turned the light on. 

He had promised not to do anything with George on his stag weekend. He had promised himself it was over. They were over. They were just friends and nothing more. 

But George had tears in his eyes. 

“Please,” he choked out again. His hot, eager fingers sought for Matty’s, grabbing at him like a child. “Please, Matty. Just one last time.”

Matty was silent for a long, long moment, searching for a reason to say no. 

“I’ve got lube,” George said, as if he’d read Matty’s mind. “It’s in my bag.”

His voice was a lot more steady than Matty kew he felt. He did not question why George brought it with him, unless he was expecting this to happen, which made him question why George was even getting married if he was still willing to shag his best mate on his stag do, but he bit his tongue, closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, then slowly and carefully stood, walked down the hallway as if in a daze. It wasn’t his place. George knew what he was doing. And if Matty didn’t have the strength to tell him no even when he’s promised himself, he supposed he also had no room to talk.

This was going to end badly for them. There was no way this would end without somebody getting hurt. Selfishly, Matty knew who he hoped it would be.

The door to George’s bedroom pushed open with a loud creak. All his bags were still packed. When Matty unzipped his bag to find the lube, he saw one of his own sweatshirts, neatly folded with the rest of George’s clothes. He took it out and held it for a moment. 

It smelt like George’s house. 

He did his best not to think about it too much, about why he was doing this, about why George came prepared, about what he was going to do after he was married, when they really, really couldn’t do this anymore. He tried not to think about who was going to get hurt. Matty wondered about when they were going to stop. Would they ever manage to stop? Was he cursed forever to keep falling back into George’s arms, becoming a secondary lover? Years down the line, would they still be doing this? Even if George had kids? A family? If him being engaged wasn’t reason enough to stop, where would they draw the line?

This was different, he reminded himself. This was the last time for their little ritual, and George clearly needed it, and just like they’d said with every ‘last time’ they’d had since George got engaged, they had to know it was the last time before they did it. This was no exception. 

George was sat cross-legged on the bed when Matty returned. He looked apprehensive. Matty dropped the bottle onto the sheets, knelt on the bed, and shuffled towards him. George brought a hand up and cupped the back of his neck, leaned up like he was going to kiss him. 

Matty jerked away as if George was going to burn him. 

If there was no kissing, he wasn’t fully breaking his promise. Even he was aware that his reasoning was shot, but he had to hold onto something, otherwise he was just shamelessly shagging George on the first night of his stag weekend. He’d be breaking his promise and his heart. He had already come to terms with the fact that this was over, he couldn’t reopen the wound. This wasn’t for him, it was for George, but for his own sake, there couldn’t be any kissing.

George opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, nodded bitterly. Matty didn’t respond, just pulled his shirt over his head and motioned for George to do the same. 

George’s body looked the same as it always did. His chest was broad, and smooth, and dotted with moles. The ink on his arms was just as striking as ever. He still had that scar on his right collarbone. There was a ghost of a bruise at the base of his throat. Seeing it made Matty flinch. A pang of jealousy twisted in his stomach like a hot knife, and he mentally scolded himself forr it, because he couldn’t be jealous of George’s _ actual fiancee _ . 

George was looking at him, eyes trailing all over his body. Matty was never self-conscious, not in front of George, but the way he was looking made him feel like his body was marred by his guilt, by all the emotions inside him that he was trying to repress until the wedding. They were all written on his skin, tattooed permanently there for everyone to see, especially George. He would never escape them, they would be with him always, twisting in a knot deep deep down in his stomach.

But he was the same. George was just looking at him. 

Without being able to kiss him, Matty wasn’t sure what to do now. He crowded George back against the headboard, guided him to lay back against the pillows, and slowly, tenderly, ran his fingers over George’s skin. He dragged his hands everywhere, the way he would do with his mouth, usually. He wanted to touch, to be close to George, to be in contact with as much skin as possible while he still had the chance. They were silent. Matty closed his eyes and tried his best not to think about the fact that he’d never do this again. 

Worry bubbled under his skin. He knew how badly George needed this sometimes, how much of a release it could be for him to be vulnerable in this way, to be cared for. They’d crafted and curated the routine so carefully for just the two of them, it could be utterly effortless, wordless. Falling back into these roles was as easy as breathing. Matty wasn’t sure how George would get this release after tonight; how either of them would.

He forced the thought out if his head, focused, for now, on running his fingers all over George’s body. It wasn’t the same as kissing him all over, and he kept getting distracted, running his fingers back over that bruise. It wasn’t the same as kissing him. It wasn’t the same. 

“Take these off,” he murmured, hands ghosting over the waistband of George’s jeans. His movements were slow, heavy. Matty felt it. The air in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, the knowledge of yet another ‘last time’ hanging heavy in between them. 

When George was naked in front of him, the familiarity started coming back. Matty could follow the routine a little easier now, kisses or no kisses, but his lips did brush along George’s thigh as he settled himself between them to finger him open slowly. The lube George brought was brand new. Matty tried not to think why; he pictured George with the same iron resolve as he’d had at the beginning of the day, leaving it at home on purpose, but caving and stopping at a store on the way here. He tried not to think too much at all. 

When he had two fingers inside of George to the last knuckle, he looked up at him. George’s eyes were closed, his head tipped back, one hand covering his mouth. Slowly, Matty withdrew his fingers, made his way back up George’s body, and guided his hand away. George opened his eyes, then, and they spent a moment just looking at each other, faces close, two sets of eyes shining. George reached up and cupped the back of Matty’s head.

Matty didn’t struggle anymore. His stomach twisted with emotion. He let George pull him down for a kiss. 

Once they started, they never stopped, the kisses flowing like wine, deep and slow, with an undercurrent of desperation. Matty needed to kiss George or he would die, he would suffocate. He needed to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, give him all of the kisses he should have been able to give for the rest of their lives, get them all out right now because he’d lose his chance otherwise. George seemed to feel the same. Their lips barely parted for more than a few seconds at a time. 

As always, Matty fucked him slowly, carefully. George clung to him like he was the only real thing in the world, gazed up at him as if he was the sun. Matty just wanted to make him feel good. He wanted the last time that they did this to be good for him. All he wanted was for things to be good for George. Now and always. Forever.

He felt that George was getting emotional before he saw it. It tugged at his chest, made his stomach twist, made something feel heavy behind his eyes. And like a fool, he added to it, opened his mouth for the first time since they first kissed each other and said, “We can’t do this anymore.”

George’s grip on him tightened. He sighed shakily into Matty’s neck. 

“This has to be it,” he murmured, not even sure which one of them he was trying to tell. “After this, we have to— We’ve got to stop. We can’t, not when you’re— when you’re—”

His voice caught in his throat. He couldn’t say it, because saying it made it true, and if he squeezed his eyes shut then maybe, maybe it wouldn’t be true, maybe he could will it away and nothing would have to change. 

His eyes were stinging. He shut them tighter. 

Visions of the first time flashed in his head. The first time they'd had sex — proper sex — on top of the sheets in George's bed, so young, feeling so intensely, rambling over and over and over -  _ I love you, I love you, I love you _ . And then the sun rose, and Matty watched George sleep, and he’d panicked, left while he was sleeping, freaked out and shut down and dodged his calls for days. And the sex never stopped but the words did, but they never stopped being  _ true _ . It was just as true now as it had been the very first time, that hot, frantic night, and, not for the first time since that night, Matty wanted to say it again, wanted to finally get it out on the table and tell George that even though he’d left that morning, he still felt it, it was still true.  _ I love you, I love you, I love you. _

He’d always been too scared to say it again. Now he’d left it too late. George had taken that love and put it somewhere else, promised to put it somewhere else forever. Matty missed his chance. 

They didn’t have emotional sex. That wasn’t what this was. It was just another ‘last time’. 

Matty was emotional, though. 

When he came, he clamped his teeth down on George’s shoulder, focused on trying to bite and suck a bruise into his skin, a reminder, a last mark, even though it would be temporary. There was nothing he could do that would stay, nothing that George would see every day and remember this, the last time they fucked, or any of the times they’d fucked. If he wanted to, George could deny to everyone that it had ever happened at all. It would just be his word against Matty’s. It stung. 

George’s orgasm followed Matty’s like it always did. He came with a weak cry, though his eyes were unusually dry, face buried in Matty’s neck, clinging to him for dear life. He kissed Matty’s lips again. Matty never wanted to pull away for fear of it being their last ever kiss. 

They were silent as they cleaned up. George’s breath was hitching and stuttering. Matty didn’t mention it, but handed him a tissue. He went into the bathroom and sat on the closed toilet lid for a long time, almost folded in half, his head on his knees, and cried. He lost track of how long he was in there. 

Something was different. Something had changed, shifted seismically. He’d never felt this way before, not straight after sex, especially not sex with George. It felt different this time. It wasn’t just sex, not anymore. They’d always been able to speak without words and this was no exception. This was more than sex now. Maybe it always had been.

He would have been angry at himself, if you’d told him this morning that they’d fuck again tonight. He’d have felt stupid for breaking his promise again, for letting himself slip up again, for fucking George on his stag do. Something was different now. It wasn’t the same anymore. This sex was more than just sex. It was the closest they’d ever come to being like that first time again, a cyclical ending, the closest Matty had ever come to saying those words again —  _ I love you, I love you, I love you. _

He loved George. 

He was _ in love with George _ . And he always had been, ever since that very first time, since before the first time, he’d been in love with George.

And none of that mattered anymore because George was engaged. There was nothing he could do about it because George was engaged, it didn’t matter that he was in love with him, didn’t matter that George was the only person he could ever fathom loving like this, the only person he could ever fathom loving, because he’d missed his chance, he’d left it too fucking late and now George was engaged,  _ he chose her _ , and Matty had lost his chance. 

When he came out of the bathroom, George had stopped crying. He was wearing nothing but Matty’s t-shirt. Matty didn’t even say anything, just let him. He was sat on top of the covers. There was a long stretch of silence where they just looked at each other, both aware of this shift. Maybe George had been aware of it all along. 

George went into the bathroom. Matty took his place on the bed. He came out, looked nervous. Matty was still. They were both still. It had never been like this between them anymore. They were never nervous around each other. 

“Stay,” Matty whispered. His voice caught in his throat.

George hesitated, then came to sit on the bed.

They clung to each other desperately, tangled up in each other like they would both float away if they let go, like they’d lose each other. Matty’s eyes were wet again. He ached to be surrounded by George, by his warmth, by his smell, by him. His attitude had changed; before, he wanted to stop entirely, wanted to quit while he was ahead. Now he wanted to have George as much as he could in the time he had left. He wanted to pretend this wasn’t happening. If he closed his eyes tight enough he could just about block out the thought that the man he was in love with was engaged, and not to him. He could try and forget that _ he chose her _ . 

He slept fitfully. He wasn’t sure if George slept at all. When the sun rose, he got out of bed, and, just like the old days, padded down the hallway into the unfamiliar kitchen, made George a cup of tea to wake him up, and wondered if he'd ever get the chance to do it again.


	2. II

Matty wouldn’t have believed that this was real if you’d told him a few months ago. 

If you’d told him, a few months ago, that he’d be sitting in his living room with Ross and Adam, reading over his best man speech for George’s wedding — which was rapidly approaching — he’d have told you to piss off. He still didn’t quite believe it. He was half hoping that the day would come and they’d all turn around and tell him it was some big joke they were all in on. A sick, cruel joke, but a joke nonetheless. He’s forgive George on the spot if it meant he wouldn’t get married and Matty wouldn’t have to deal with the heartbreak of losing him forever, and they could carry on their lives as normal. Maybe he’d finally grow the balls to tell George that he loved him. 

Something made him think that wasn’t going to happen.

So here he was. Reading his speech. He’d never had a problem with words before, always been able to express himself easily, but reading this speech felt stunted, forced. This was his second draft, and he still hated it. It felt insincere. What he truly wanted, he supposed, was to turn to George at his wedding reception and ruin everything, have his speech be over in seconds, just say,  _ I love you, _ and leave it at that. Walk away, leave the party, let it all fall down behind him. Be the world’s worst best man. Maybe, he thought, he should run away right now. Save himself the pain and save George the embarrassment, back out of the wedding, back out of his life, take himself and his heartache away someplace quiet and try to never think about George ever again, die lonely and hurting because he knew he could never love anybody else the same. He’d lost his chance now. He chose her. What was the point in staying, just to suffer?

He knew that wouldn’t help. Even if he did run away, George would find him. He always did. Wherever he ended up, George would be there before him. Waiting.

He’d already written the speech once. He wrote the whole thing in one sitting, late at night, pages and pages and pages of words, frenzied, broken words that spidered off the lines, sentences that carried on for pages and pages. He didn’t get chance to finish it. He was crying, and in the end his hand was shaking too much to hold the pen properly, and he could hardly see through his tears. He’d called Ross at an ungodly hour of the morning and sobbed down the phone about how he  _ couldn’t fucking do this anymore, it hurt too much, it was all too much, he couldn’t take anymore of it, _ and just like that night all that time ago, Ross came to him, and soothed him through his tears, gently guided his hands away from the paper that he was clutching manically. He never saw it again. 

His second draft was, somehow, worse. It was wooden. Emotionless. He supposed he would have to be that way too. Empty, void, unfeeling. If he let himself feel, he would fuck it all up. If he let himself feel, he would spiral, and then he would explode. He’d tell George how he felt in front of everyone and ruin both of their lives. 

He couldn’t do that. 

He wanted George to be happy. All that mattered now was making sure that George was happy. If he was going too get married — and he _was_ going to get married — all Matty could do was hope for him to be happy. If Matty couldn’t have him — and he _couldn’t_ have him — the least he could do was try his best to make George happy. 

So Adam and Ross were round, and Matty was curled up in a cold little ball on the sofa, clutching his notecards. His hands were still trembling. The speech made him feel sick. 

He felt stupid. They were in his flat, yet Adam was making the tea. He brought one steaming mug through and set it on the coffee table. Matty offered a weak smile. He sat down, then Ross came through and sat down and said, “Read it to us, then.”

Matty looked down at his notecards again and burst into tears. 

*

George knew he was doing the wrong thing. 

He was almost used to the frequent and harsh reminders from Ross; their conversation in the studio, his knowing looks on the stag weekend, a series of angry texts a few nights ago, so late that you could call it early, ordering him to  _ fucking sort it out before everybody gets hurt _ . 

He knew that Ross was right, but he didn’t listen. If he put the blinders on and went forward, he would be fine. Once he was married, everything would be okay. He often thought that things with his fiancee weren’t the same as they were with Matty — he didn’t laugh as hard, didn’t smile as wide. Sex wasn’t as good. His heart never swelled the same. 

He’d known Matty twenty years. She just needed time. He kept telling himself, it would be different once he was married. Once they were married, it would all be okay. He was just stressed from planning a wedding, everyone felt this way at this stage, it would all come back once they were married. He’d see her walking down the aisle on their wedding day in her pretty, white dress and he’d remember why he fell in love with her — because he  _ was  _ in love with her — and he’d fall in love all over again. Once they were married, it would be different. 

But then  _ Adam  _ came to talk to him, and he knew he was doing a bad thing. 

It was just like that first conversation with Ross. Adam pulled him aside in the studio and told him about Matty, reading his speech, and the tears, and the story about Matty calling Ross, and he wasn’t trying to be nasty, he was just letting George know. He laid his hand on george’s shoulder and looked at him with almost pity, and said, “Just think about it, mate, yeah?”

George couldn’t  _ stop  _ thinking about it. 

He was doing the wrong thing. He knew he was doing the wrong thing. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself. He was too far gone. Everything was arranged, everything was booked and paid for and  _ happening _ , he was getting married, and it would all be different once he was married. He was sure of it. He’d stop feeling like this once he was married. He’d see her walking down the aisle and fall in love with her again. It would be different once he was married. 

It would have to be different once he was married. If not, he would have to take all of these feelings and push them deep, deep down inside him, wrap them up into a manageable knot in his stomach and work around them for the rest of his life. 

Maybe he was doing the wrong thing, but it didn’t matter now. The wedding was in two weeks. Wrong or not, he had to do it.

It would be different once he was married.

*

George’s first great mistake was telling the lie. 

The event was preceded by many, many, small mistakes, but his first big mistake was the lie. He answered the phone to Matty.  _ Mistake _ . He continued the conversation past Matty’s question about mastering.  _ Mistake _ . He laughed.  _ Mistake _ . He forced himself to stop laughing so that he could listen to Matty’s laugh, musical and perfect and so familiar that it was almost warm.  _ Mistake _ . He snuck off somewhere that nobody would be able to hear him to make plans in hushed voices, plans for them to see each other, plans to be alone together.  _ Mistake _ . 

He went home that night and told her that he’d be back late the next day.  _ Truth _ . Said he was going to be in the studio all day, working on someone else’s album _. Lie. Mistake. Big mistake. His first great mistake. _

He left the house after she went to work. He was wearing jeans that Matty liked. He didn’t knock on the door, but texted Matty that he was there, and was let in without a word. 

He was here under the guise of helping Matty with some music. They were finishing tracks. That was all. She thought he was on his own all day. She didn’t like him being with Matty on their own — not loudly, not vocally, but enough for George to notice. She knew. He was sure she knew. Maybe, he thought, she’d always known, to some degree.  _ But then why didn’t she stop him? Why didn’t she say anything? Why didn’t she leave him, if she knew?  _

She didn’t. She couldn’t. Either way, it didn’t matter anymore. They were getting married, and soon, and after the wedding he would stop fucking around with Matty. At their wedding, George would fall in love with her afresh and she would never know and they could live out the rest of their lives together in peace. It would be a past thing, an ended era. They probably wouldn’t even talk about it again. He had taken all his love and successfully put it somewhere else.

His second great mistake was reminiscing. 

They did as they intended to, worked on music all morning, and for a lot of the afternoon. It was a slough, they kept getting stuck in one place and having to redo it, and as soon as they were satisfied with that part, every other part sounded wrong too. It was refreshing, George thought, to lose himself in making music again, to lose himself in making music with Matty, to not worry about the wedding or his fiancee or the lie or any of his great mistakes, to be with Matty, creating things, losing track of time. For a moment it was like he’d never met her at all, and it had always been this way. They were creative partners. They were them again. 

But then.

They were finally finished, or almost finished, listening to the finished instrumental all the way through for the first time, and Matty got so excited, so visibly excited, that George’s heart swelled and he grinned without even meaning to. Matty jumped up out of his chair in his vigour and started to dance, a pure release of tension and joy, and he was laughing, and George wanted to dance with him. He was reminded with sobering suddenness of the first time they’d ever kissed. 

They were too old to be teenagers. Matty had been dancing, his vest too big, his glasses on, blowing smoke into the air. George saw him in a way he never had before. He stood up and slid his hands onto Matty’s narrow hips and kissed him.

George remembered the day like he’d painted it in oils. They were so young then. It was so long ago. Even at that age, he knew that, in some capacity, he wanted to be with Matty for the rest of their lives. Not necessarily romantically, or sexually, just  _ with  _ him. He felt it just as much now as he did then, maybe more, after all this time. After all their mountainous highs and their catastrophic lows, their victories and losses, their metamorphosis, George couldn’t think of a single person he wanted to be beside for the rest of his life more than Matty. It struck him with a painful certainty in that moment, as he watched Matty jump out of his chair to dance to the song they had made together. It was just like the first time, and George couldn’t help himself. He stood up, glided to Matty’s side, slid his hands onto Matty’s now less-narrow hips — being healthy suited him better, anyway — and kissed him. 

There was great mistake number three. 

Once they started, they never stopped. They stumbled backwards as one, joint entity and Matty’s hands fumbled blindly to stop the playback, then braced himself on the edge of the desk as George kissed him breathless. Both large hands were cupping Matty’s face, holding him as if he would float away otherwise. 

And he might have. He felt like he was drowning in George, spiralling deeply into him, no kicking or screaming or struggle. Just desperate hands and needy kisses. Their lips barely parted for a moment as they stumbled through the flat, both on autopilot because, how many times had they done this, really? George would have known his way through Matty’s flat blind and devoid of touch, no walls to hang onto or anything. He could make his way to Matty’s bed from anywhere in the world. 

He had his shirt over his head before they even reached the bedroom. Matty’s hands were all over him grasping, clutching, straying, trying to drink in as much of him as possible before they ran out of time, and they  _ were  _ running out of time, but it didn’t even matter, not then, because they were kissing and their skin was touching and it was just like the first time but so, so much better, and then — cutting through the haze like a bullet at the bottom of his ribcage — George’s phone rang. 

He wrenched himself away from Matty with dread already settling in his chest. He knew before he looked at the screen. It was her. Millions upon millions of scenarios shot through his mind, like all of his synapses firing at once. She knew. She’d somehow figured out that he was lying. She was angry. She was going to call off the wedding. He wasn’t sure why that one filled him with so much dread. 

He cursed under his breath and scrambled off Matty, stood up straight, left the room before he answered the call. Great mistake number four. He did his best not to sound like he’d just been kissing Matty breathless. 

None of the scenarios in his head were true. She just wanted to know what he wanted for dinner, because she was in Sainsbury’s. He didn’t think it was worth the pit of dread in his stomach. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

It was different, after that. He tried to get back into it, to kiss Matty again, to lose himself in the ebb and flow of him, but every movement George made was shadowed by dread. That great, sucking pit in his stomach was unrelentingly black and deep and it wouldn’t allow for anything else to take root there. If he felt like this at home, his solution would be to lay back and let her kiss him, watch her as she rode him, cum — or think of an excuse not to — and then roll over and try to fall asleep before she asked him what was wrong. 

Matty wouldn’t have that, though. Matty knew him well enough to know when something was wrong, and to know when he could reignite the spark in George’s chest, and when he couldn’t. This was definitely the latter. They sat together in silence for a little while, both thinking too loudly, bare arms touching but nothing more. They didn’t kiss again. They didn’t do any more work. George put his clothes back on and left. He paid no mind to the time or the fact that he said he’d be back late, because it was only mid afternoon, and if he’d been smarter, he’d have pre-prepared an excuse. He was finding it hard to think at all. 

He was doing a bad thing. He was doing the  _ wrong  _ thing. Someone was going to get hurt. It was just like Ross said. George needed to sort it out before everyone got hurt. Damage control. 

But he couldn’t fathom  _ how _ . He couldn’t turn back the clock and undo all the things he’d done. They would stop after the wedding. They would have to, because George was going to fall back in love with her. He would take all his love for Matty and put it with her. 

He  _ did  _ love her. He didn’t  _ not  _ love her. He had loved her when he met her and he’d loved her when he’d proposed, and he loved her now. And she loved him, too. They had love for each other, but they weren’t  _ in love. _ It didn’t matter how many times George told himself that he would fall in love with her at their wedding, the truth of it was, that he wouldn’t. He could try and try to force it, to do what he’d been trying to do for years — ever since that night where he’d fallen asleep beside Matty and woken up alone — and put all that love somewhere else, but the raw, terrifying truth was, in the end, it wouldn’t work. 

He promised himself as he was driving home that he would  _ try _ . He was going to make such an effort to forget what he had with Matty, to forget about the ache and pull in his chest every single fucking time he saw him, every time Matty smiled, every time they had the same idea at the same time. He would forget, because he had to forget, because he was getting married. And he  _ loved her _ , he  _ did _ , but he loved Matty more, but he was scared of that fact for too long and he’d made a foolish decision, and now he had promised all of his love to her. So he had to forget. He had to accept that he’d made a mistake — his biggest, greatest mistake — and he had to live with the consequences. 

So he would try. He would make an effort. He would make the most effort possible to actually, actively take all of his love for Matty, and push it aside. Give it to her. Bury it in a box in the middle of the lawn. After the wedding, it would stop. This was damage control. He had already done enough to hurt her for a lifetime, but after they were married, it had to stop. It would have to stop, because  _ he loved her. _ No matter how little he seemed to, compared to his love for Matty, he did love her. He respected her. He didn’t want to hurt her. So it had to end. It ended after the wedding. It had to. It would. 

The wedding was approaching rapidly. The number of days fell into single digits. George kept his distance from Matty, as best he could, and he tried his best to look at her and tell himself the things he’d told himself when they first got engaged, and he didn’t know how Matty felt about him. 

No matter how bad it hurt, no matter how hard it was, he would take his love for Matty, and he would put it somewhere else. 

He would put it with her, or die trying.  _ Till death do us part, after all. _

*

Matty sat in the car outside of George’s house for a long, long time. 

This was wrong. This was so wrong. This was absolutely, fundamentally wrong. There was no way this was real. Matty must have been dreaming, he must have hit his head, he wasn’t thinking straight, he was making it up, it was all a nightmare and he’d wake up next to George in a cold sweat, panting and shaking, but it wouldn’t matter, because it wasn’t real. That was the only explanation. The only plausible truth. 

Tomorrow morning, George was getting married. 

It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a lie. George was getting married tomorrow. Matty was sat in front of his house to pick him up, so he could spend the night in Matty’s flat, and in the morning they could put their suits on and Matty would drive them to the venue and watch in real time as he lost George forever.

He sat in the car for a long time. Every time he thought he was finished fighting tears, he looked at George’s front door and they came back afresh, flooded his eyes and wet his cheeks, and he had to stay sat in the car until he calmed down again. He couldn’t go inside, not like this. It was one thing for George to see him this way, but George wasn’t the only person who lived in that house, so Matty had to keep sitting in the car and forcing his tears down. 

Tomorrow morning, George would wake up, in Matty’s flat, put his suit on, and his tie, and his smile, and they’d get into Matty’s car again, and Matty would have his suit on also, and they’d walk into the venue and George would get married, and Matty would lose him.

George had insisted he didn’t need a fancy hotel room if they were going to sleep apart tonight. Thankfully, the stars had been merciful, and his fiancee hadn’t asked any questions. So he was staying at Matty’s tonight. It was the last night they could spend together. After this, it stopped. It was over between them after the wedding. Over a decade of sex, and kissing, and crying, and holding each other, of late nights and early mornings and plane rides, and loving each other, silently loving each other; it all ended tomorrow. It was over tomorrow. For the rest of their lives, they would never be like that again. They promised. 

Matty was crying again. His phone told him he should have been in George’s house ten minutes ago. He’d been sat out here for an hour. He had to get here early, because he knew seeing George’s house would make him cry, and he needed time to calm himself down.

He’d been good at not crying for a lot of the day. He woke up early, couldn’t get back to sleep, too aware of the achy, tugging feeling in his chest. Every cell in his body knew: today was the day before George’s wedding. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t stay still, couldn’t create, couldn’t think. Most of the hours sloughed by tortorously slowly, but then he blinked and it was time for him to leave. Rather, it was his self-imposed time to leave, because he knew he would need to sit here in his car pitifully for an hour to calm down. His eyes were still red in the mirror, and his cheeks were flushed, and his hands trembled when he reached for the doorhandle, but he had to go in. He could see shifting in the windows of the house, and he had a feeling George knew he’d been out here on his own, weeping, this whole time. 

The garden was pristine. Matty wondered who had done it. He had a vision of George mowing the lawn on a Saturday morning, coming back into the house to greet his fiancee with a kiss and a smile. He saw them sitting out on the grass, curled up together as the sun set, sharing the fancy cocktails he knew George liked. Despite being based in nothing, the images still stung. His eyes were buzzing with tears again. 

Ringing the bell felt like a gargantuan task. Every tiny action he took brought him one step closer to tomorrow. He would ring the bell, then he would take George back to his, then they would eat and drink and talk and go to bed and then it would be morning and George would be getting married and he’d already be gone, Matty would already have lost him. 

He took a deep breath and forced himself to ring the bell. 

The silence that followed was terrifyingly long. There was muffled talking behind the door, then a figure approached behind the glass window, and Matty physically felt his heart crumble in his chest, because the door swung open before he could do anything about it, and it was  _ her _ . 

She grinned at him brightly, greeted him by name, and Matty was so jarred by it that he almost forgot how to speak. 

Every time they’d been in the same room, he’d done his best to keep his distance. Being around her also meant being around George, and he couldn’t stand to look him in the eye and know that he was going to lose him. He was losing him, and he was losing him to this lady, who, really, had done nothing wrong at all. He supposed he had no ill will towards her, and if she made George happy, that was all Matty wanted, but some part of him also resented her. Maybe it thought she was stealing George from him. More likely, it envied her grotesquely, because she was going to have the exact thing Matty wanted, she was going to cause him all this grief, and not even know about it. She was going to have George for the rest of her life.

Matty wanted that. It was all he wanted. He’d give anything for it. All the fame, all the money, years off his life. He’d die tomorrow if it meant George could be his — just his — for one day, one night, one hour more. He couldn’t stand it. He wanted what she had.

But he realised too late. George chose her. He’d had his chance, had ten years of chances, and then as soon as his chance was lost, he realised. 

So maybe he hated her. Maybe he envied her. Maybe he shouldn’t have. 

“Matty,” She grinned at him. He wished he could find a flaw in her. “Come inside! We’ve been waiting, come in, come in.”

He offered her a small smile, but talking to her made him feel uneasy. His skin prickled. Guilt twisted in his stomach like a ball of thorns.

Being inside was worse. He’d been in George’s house a million times, but stood there with her, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Even just stood by the door, everything he could see had a memory attached to it. George had kissed him there, George had fucked him against that wall. Once they had sex on the stairs. There was a lump in Matty’s throat that he couldn’t swallow.

“Where is he?” He managed to choke out through the vice grip on his throat, and she smiled fondly. 

“Still just packing up, you know what he’s like.” Her voice sounded fond, like she had grounds to say that. The flinty thing inside of Matty wanted him to scream. 

_ Yeah, I do know what he’s like,  _ he thought vindictively _ , but do you? _

He loathed himself for thinking it, because he had no grounds to hate her. He had no grounds for anything;  _ he  _ was the one who was doing the bad thing. She was just trying to live, trying to be happy and get on with her life, about to marry the man that she loved, and Matty was the wedge in between them, because she just happened to be marrying the man that  _ he  _ loved as well. He was the one doing the bad thing. He had no grounds to hate her at all. 

And the realisation made him feel sick. Of course, he’d always known that, really, he was the one in the wrong, but there’d always been that small, hot, green part of him that still resented her. Maybe never speaking to her made it worse. Looking at her now, for the longest he had done since they’d met, made him realise that he shouldn’t. 

George emerged from the kitchen with a carrier bag slung over his arm, and another strap over his shoulder. He smiled at Matty, and it lit up the whole room, and all the tumultuous feelings inside him were subdued for a moment, because George was here. Nothing could hurt, because George was here. But then he kissed her and she glowed up at him, and they were grinning at each other, and he had an arm around her waist, and Matty wanted to tear his heart out and bleed all over their perfect little lives. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmured, and her smile widened, and Matty felt like he was intruding on something he shouldn’t be seeing. He and George walked out to the car without a word to each other. 

George put his bags in the backseat. He lingered there with the door open for a long time, and Matty watched him from the other side of the car, wondering if he was thinking about all of the things they’ve done in the backseat of this car. Some part of his brain said that was ridiculous; George had no reason to think about those things anymore. It was Matty who looked at George’s house and remembered every kiss and touch and movement. George had no reason to remember those things; he was getting married tomorrow. 

They sat in the stationary car for a long time, quiet. Matty wanted desperately to say something, but there was nothing to say. What  _ could  _ he say? What could he hope to convey in this moment? 

He reminded himself, that despite it all, it was still George. It was just George, who he’d known his whole life, really. They’d never spent more than a few minutes in awkward silence in all the years they’d known each other. Matty didn’t see why this time was any different. He glanced at George over the console, and George looked back at him, and there was one, still moment where they looked at each other, then, unbidden, Matty’s face broke into an inexplicable smile. 

Because it was George. The dark, empty, sucking void of disbelief inside of him didn’t matter. Tomorrow didn’t matter. He was smiling, because it was George. 

If Matty thought about it hard enough, he could push away the thoughts of tomorrow; he could stop thinking about what would happen and just focus on the  _ now _ , on driving and then parking the car, getting out, walking to the door, fiddling with his keys. If he hyperfocused on every minute thing, he could pretend this wasn’t happening. It was so surreal, after so long waiting, to actually be stood here, in his flat, with George, knowing that he was getting married tomorrow. 

If Matty didn’t think about it, it couldn’t hurt. 

He opened a bottle of wine, and George sat on his sofa like always and stole one of his cigarettes. If Matty shut his mind off, pushed away the thoughts, it was almost like just another, normal night. There was no woman, no wedding, there was no reason for George to be here, he was just here, and it was a normal evening, maybe they would kiss later, maybe they would kiss later  _ for the last time _ — the last time. The unsolicited thought hit Matty in the chest like a ton of bricks. It made his stomach twist nauseatingly. He had to put his wine down. 

It came at him in waves. George was getting married tomorrow. He knew this. He had almost accepted this. That meant they couldn’t mess around anymore. He knew this also. That meant that tonight was their last chance. That meant that at some point in the looming future, he would kiss George, and it would be the last time. At some point in the near, near future, George’s hands would leave his waist, or his hair, or his  _ throat _ — and they would never rest there again. George was slipping away from him in real time. Matty watched the second hand creep around his clock. Every tick was a reminder; that was another second closer to losing George. 

Like they’d done a thousand times before, George was planning on cooking for him. Matty felt horrible, guilty that he was doing so on the night before his wedding. He felt like he should be the one cooking for George — not that he had any ingredients in his flat, or any particular culinary prowess. Still, he felt bad. Tomorrow was George’s wedding day. Surely he would be nervous, or excited, or just trying to enjoy his last night as an unmarried man, but no, he was cooking for Matty. It was wrong. 

But it was also right. Unbelievably right. It wasn’t romance, simply how things were; George cooked. George always, always cooked. 

“At least let me help,” Matty said, even though he didn’t feel particularly helpful. The pit in his stomach was back, and it was angry, violently upset that he was being so passive, that he wasn’t commanding George to sit down and relax while he cooked him dinner and mixed him a drink. But his body was numb, acting without thinking, helping George chop veggies and listening, always listening, to the clock ticking in the other room, so aware of the passage of time. 

He was away from himself. He was somewhere else, watching from the outside. 

He didn’t even notice when the knife slipped.

It wasn’t a big cut, just a little nick on his finger, but it bled, and he stared at it blankly, barely even registering the pain. He was by no means squeamish about blood, not one to faint or scream or gag, but now he was just staring, looking blankly at the cut on his hand, as if he was struggling to process it. 

George noticed his silent stillness, and then he noticed the blood. 

“Matty,” he said carefully, setting an almost hesitant hand on Matty’s shoulder. This was wrong. Everything was fucking wrong. They weren’t like this with each other, why were they like this with each other now? “You’re bleeding.”

Matty swallowed thickly and just nodded. George guided him to set the knife down, led him to the sink so he could wash the blood off his hand, looked at his little cut over and over, trying to give himself a reason to be so concerned. He knew where Matty kept his plasters without even asking, and wrapped one around his finger almost tenderly, like caring for Matty came naturally to him. A second nature. In a way, it did. They had been looking after each other for years.

The tears might have come then. They might have started long ago. But that was when George took him into his arms, shushing him gently, seemingly aware of how empty Matty was feeling. He had to know. Surely he knew. If he didn’t feel the same, he must at least have known. 

Ten years. It echoed in Matty’s head with every drum of his heartbeat. Ten years. Gone. Over. Finished. He was losing George tomorrow. After ten years, he was losing George tomorrow. 

After ten years, Matty was going to lose him tomorrow, because _ he chose her. _

A sob broke in his chest like a wave crashing on the shore. He’d cried about it plenty of times, but this hurt just as much as the very first time. Just like that first night, where he’d just walked, picked a direction and gone, where he’d ended up on Ross’ couch, and he’d sobbed all night. It still felt just as bad. That night felt like years ago. 

George was holding him. He was warm and strong and everpresent, and he was holding Matty so tight, so close, that it was like nothing was going to change. 

Just for tonight, Matty wanted to pretend that nothing was going to change. 

They abandoned the cooking, left the counters messy. Matty had no doubt that he’d have plenty of time to clean it up later, because he already knew he wasn’t going to sleep tonight. George held him in his arms on the sofa, stroking up and down his back calmly, and Matty closed his eyes, tried to imprint into his brain the exact way it felt to have George touching him. He tried to map out all their points of contact, to remember them all at once, but the list kept getting jumbled in his spinning head. He figured it was fruitless to try and remember this in such an analytical way, and he’d never been too good with things like that, anyway. Why remember it in numbers and formulae when he could simply try and capture the feeling, the sensation of being held?

George was holding him. He was in George’s arms. Nothing else mattered. Tomorrow didn’t matter. The dull ache in his finger didn’t matter. The sickening, wrenching pain in his chest didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. George was holding him. 

The door knocked. Matty was confused. George got up to answer it and came back with a pizza. 

“I figured we wouldn’t be cooking,” he said, setting it down on the coffee table. “And we should probably eat.”

Matty nodded and agreed with him, but didn’t even attempt to eat. There was little point; the inside of him was a whirlwind, a twisting, sucking, tempestuous mess. The smell of food mixed with his storming emotions and made him feel a sick. 

“Are you going to eat something?” George asked him, in a concerned voice Matty had only heard him use a handful of times before. He hated it, it made his skin crawl, he wanted to flip the fucking coffee table over and  _ scream _ , because this was their last night together, he wanted it to just be fucking  _ normal _ , just wanted one last night where he could pretend that none of this was happening. 

But he didn’t say anything. He just shook his head and let his eyes fill up with tears.

George sighed and looked at him for a moment. Matty pretended not to notice, swiped furiously at his eyes, but let George pull him into his lap. This was better. This was more normal. Matty was facing him, and for a few moments they just looked at each other, dinner immediately forgotten. All that existed, all that needed to exist, was George. Matty kissed him like everything was the way it had always been. 

There was no rush to their actions, in fact, everything was as slow as it possibly could be. Despite the fact that they were swiftly running out of it, they were taking their time. Matty let himself get lost, in George’s mouth, in the way he kissed, the way he’d kissed for ten years. His hands were warm and strong on Matty’s waist. It had always been this way. 

Despite himself, heat was pooling up in Matty’s stomach. He supposed it was only a matter of time; after all, it was George, and George always had this effect on him. Tears or no tears. Wedding or no wedding. Tomorrow was the end of ten years of  _ sex _ , after all. Yes, there were the feelings, but they were silent. Unexpressed. Or, silently expressed. Expressed through the intimate knowledge of one another’s bodies. Expressed through the sex.

It was their last night together, the last chance they would ever get to do this, and Matty wanted it burned into his brain. He wanted to have this, one last time, to see George’s body, to touch him, to try and remember every inch of skin, every mole, every line of ink. He wanted to touch, and to kiss, and to feel the heat of him, one last time. 

Because it was. It had to be. There could be no more dancing around it, no more searching for excuses; they were running out of time. It had to stop after the wedding, it had to, and George was getting married tomorrow, so this was truly it. The last time. 

George’s hands strayed from his waist to his thighs. Matty forced himself to pull away from the kiss and whisper, hoarsely, “Please, let me take you to bed.”

He wanted to explain himself, tell George that, since it was the last time, he wanted it to be perfect. He wanted it to be comfortable and slow and kind, gentle, and for George to feel so good, because if there was nothing he could do that would stay, that would stick, nothing that George would see every day and remember this, the last time they fucked, the very least he could do was make it a memory, make it something George would hold in his mind forever.

“Yeah,” George murmured against his lips. “Okay.”

Matty made to stand up, but George held onto his waist, and he was only momentarily confused, because then George stood, and he was holding Matty in his arms; one around his back, one under the curve of his knees. They looked at each other for a long, still moment. As George carried him through the door of his bedroom, he tried not to think about how soon he would be doing the exact same thing again. 

He had to keep reminding himself. George was getting married tomorrow. This was the last time they would have sex, because George was getting married tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, he would be holding her like this. 

But tonight, Matty reminded himself, tonight, George was his. For one last night, George was his. He would make it perfect; it had to be. 

They kissed each other like they were drowning. George laid Matty ever so gently on the bed, turned the lamp on, so he was looking at him in a warm, orange glow, and they kissed like the world was ending.

And it was. Matty could feel it. In the waves of heat coming off George, he could feel the ground cracking beneath their feet, revealing the inside of the Earth, ready to swallow them both whole. It would be a kinder fate, Matty thought, than to have to stand there tomorrow and watch George slip away from him. 

_ Stop it,  _ he scolded himself.  _ Fucking stop it. Don’t think about it now.  _

There were tears stinging in his eyes again. He tried to focus solely on George, on his closeness, his warmth, the way he knew just where to touch, where to drag his lips, to make Matty’s breath hitch and his chest flutter. George kissed all down his neck, along his jaw, gently over his collarbones, no trace of scraping teeth. They had passed the need for bruises; they both bore marks more permanent, marks that ran deeper. 

Memories. 

This would be a memory — or Matty hoped it would. He hoped George would remember this for as long as he would. He planned to hold onto it forever. There wasn’t enough wine in him for any of the details to blur, for him to forget exactly how George’s skin had a slight stubble scratch to it, to forget the way he looked like a painting as he pulled his shirt over his head, his perfect body bathed in the orange light.

As he was struggling with his own shirt buttons, Matty contemplated the other times that stuck in his memory. The frantic, desperate times. The quick, risky times. The filthy times. The most wholesome times. 

The first time.

The thought, and the memories, came at him with striking clarity. The first time they had sex. Proper sex. On top of the sheets on George’s bed; slow, and kind, and gentle. So young, and feeling so intensely, overwhelmed with emotion, and rambling to each other, saying so over and over,  _ I love you, I love you— _

“I love you.”

The air between them stilled. For a long time, Matty wasn’t sure if the words had actually left his mouth. George was just looking at him, staring, and he was still, and Matty’s head was swimming. 

This was all his fault. He had known for a long time, but it was illuminated doubly when the words left his mouth. That morning, all those years ago, when Matty had rolled over in the morning the words stuck in his mouth like glue, when he left while George was still asleep, he had fated this to happen. The words never came forth again. Neither of them ever said them again, despite how true they remained, all because Matty had been too young and stupid and scared that morning, and now George had taken his love and put it somewhere else. 

“I love you,” he repeated, more desperately this time, his eyes stinging again. George was hovering above him, still, gazing down at him with indecipherable eyes. Matty hated not being able to read him. 

Maybe that wasn’t a good idea. Matty shuffled back so he was sat up against the pillows, still looking up at George, desperate for him to say something, anything, to break this awful silence that had fallen over them. But then, George cupped the side of his face, and held his waist with the other hand, and kissed him deeply, and Matty felt everything falling back into place.

“I love you,” George whispered against his lips, and Matty’s eyes were wet again. He clung to George desperately, kissing him like he needed it like air, and then the desperation started. Their kisses deepened, their touches grew more needy, and clothes were shed, and then they were naked and tangled up with each other, for the last time. 

Matty’s hands strayed all over George’s body; over the lines of every tattoo, every mole and mark on his skin, the scar on his collarbone, the planes of his torso, the expanse of his back. George was a landscape; a map. Matty wanted to be everywhere. He was on his back, with George hovering over him, his legs hooked loosely around George’s hips, and they moved together slowly, so aware of each other’s bodies that they didn’t need to speak. They were tangled together, clutching each other, babbling over and over and over — _ I love you, I love you, I love you. _

Matty never wanted it to be over. Once it was over, it was over forever. He didn’t want to ever stop being this close. George loved him. Tomorrow he would get married, but tonight he was Matty’s, for the last time, tonight, he was Matty’s, and only Matty’s, ring or no ring. When the sex finished, the night would start, and the night led to the morning, and the morning led to the wedding, and when the wedding happened, it meant George wouldn’t love him anymore. Or at least, wouldn’t be his anymore. He would put his love somewhere else. So Matty never wanted it to be over; he just wanted to be here forever, on his back with George on top of him, fucking him like he was made of glass, telling him he loved him.

“You’re holding back.” George stopped. Matty gazed up at him adoringly, taking him in, trying to capture exactly how he looked in this moment, in this light. “You’re tense, baby. Do you want to stop?”

Matty shivered. George only called him  _ baby  _ before or during sex. He hadn’t realised until now that he’d be losing that. Even though it was only a tiny thing, the realisation made his eyes mist over, because it was just the word baby, but it was so much more than that. He couldn’t answer for a long time, but he didn’t want to stop. He didn’t ever want to stop.

He leaned up and cupped the side of George’s face, kissed him deeply, and flipped them over in one fluid motion. He could look down at George this way, take in more of his body, and it meant that Matty was doing all the work. He didn’t often want to, but tonight he could make an exception, because George deserved it. He deserved whatever he wanted tonight. On their last night. 

George’s hands on Matty’s waist were his only anchor point to the real world. If it weren’t for the fact he was being held, he would float away and never be able to come back. He let himself, just a little bit, only bound to earth by George’s hands on his hips, his head swimming. When his orgasm neared, he leaned down and kissed George flamingly, desperate for it never to end. The tears were streaming down his face now, even as he rolled his hips down against George’s cock. He was delirious, not thinking straight, not thinking at all, all that existed was George. There were no consequences, in Matty’s mind, that could come from the way he held George’s face and sobbed, “Stay,” against his lips. 

It was too late for that now, but Matty still rambled it over and over as he came — “Stay, I love you, stay, stay, please stay, I love you,  _ I love you. _ ”

George kissed him deeply as he spilled inside him, his breath coming out shaky and uneven, even after his orgasm had passed. Matty was still begging him.  _ Stay, stay, please stay.  _

“Please don’t go,” he whispered, “Please don’t leave me.”

George was silent. They laid there, chests pressed together, sharing one heartbeat, for a long time. Matty’s tears never stopped. George’s arms wrapped around him as if he was going to stay forever. It stung to know that he was not. 

Time took on a new form as they laid there together, silent and close. One moment, it was just past midnight. Matty blinked and it was two AM. Sometimes, he cried. Sometimes, he laid there in numb, disbelieving silence. He could hear the clock ticking from the living room. It was deafening. Every second that passed reminded him that the morning was drawing closer, and so was George’s wedding, so was the moment he would lose George forever. 

He wasn’t sure if George ever slept. In between his snatches of unwilling rest, he always heard George’s awake breathing. Every time Matty shifted, George would move to accommodate him. When Matty said I love you, George always said it back. 

Matty felt stupid. He wished he’d said it sooner. He could have said it a million times, after that morning, there was no reason it had to stop, because he still felt it, even though he was so scared. There were years — ten fucking years — succeeding that morning, and Matty had loved George intensely through every single one of them. Why, then, had he only had the balls to say it now, when it was too late?

He fucking hated himself for it. He hated that he'd lost this — ruined the best thing that had ever happened to him — because he was too much of a pussy. It was his fucking fault that George was getting married tomorrow, because he didn't say anything and he'd lost his chance. George had taken his love, and put it somewhere else. 

Matty was crying again. 

"Shh, it's going to be okay, love," George murmured into his hair, though his voice was thick with tears, and Matty pressed his face further into his neck, tried to convince himself that George was right. "Don't think about it. I've got you now."

He wished he could do such a thing. It was all he could think about. Every beat of his heart echoed dully in his head, the same words over and over, like a dull headache throbbing in his temples.  _ He chose her _ . Even when he heard George’s breath stuttering and hitching, the drum of their shared heartbeat remained the same.  _ He chose her, he chose her, he chose her.  _

Despite Matty’s best efforts, the sun began to rise, slowly leaking light into the sky, bursts of orange creeping in through the blinds to probe at their intwined bodies. Fresh tears sprung into his eyes when he registered the definite change in colour of the sky. It was too late to go back to sleep, but too early to start getting ready. 

“George?” he whispered. No answer. 

Matty sat up and looked down at him; finally, George was asleep. He looked so calm when he slept, so peaceful, so beautiful. A tear escaped from Matty’s eye, and he swiped at it furiously, bit his tongue, and ever so carefully, painfully, tore himself away from George’s side. He deserved to sleep peacefully, even if it was only for a little while, because tomorrow —  _ today _ , Matty scolded himself — today would be a big day. 

Today, George was getting married. 

*

Matty got out of bed. George deserved to sleep. He knew he’d be awake this early. His stomach was in knots, his hands shaking as he made himself the morning’s first cup of coffee, and started cleaning up the kitchen. Silent — or as silent as he could manage — tears leaked down his face as he cleared up from last night’s attempt at dinner, remembering how tenderly George had held him in his arms, helped him when he’d hurt himself. He had to keep mentally scolding himself; today was about  _ George _ . He’d had all night to be upset, but now he had to be the strong one, because today was George’s wedding day and everything had to be okay, Matty had to play a part in making it all okay. 

He deliberated for a long time about when would be the most appropriate time to wake George up, because he didn’t want them to have to rush, but he wanted George to get as much sleep as possible. It had been a long night. George deserved the rest. Eventually, Matty gave in and made them both coffee and toast, brought the steaming cups through to the bedroom, and — just like he’d done a million times before, just like he’d never do again — woke George up with a smile and his coffee already waiting. 

George’s dark eyes opened sleepily, and he gazed up at Matty with a small, tired smile. Matty tried his best to return it. George shuffled up into a half-seated position and thanked him groggily for the drink, and then, as if the day wasn’t here, as if nothing was going to change, as if Matty’s whole world wasn’t going to be rocked on its axis in a matter of hours, George leaned up and kissed him. It was a sweet, innocent little kiss, a thank you gesture, a thoughtless action. Just what came naturally, just his typical response. 

It made Matty cry again.

He swiped furiously at his eyes, desperate to appear cool, to be the strong one. He handed George his plate, then moved to sit on the other side of him, his own cup and plate in hand, but he could hardly touch his toast. His stomach kept flipping over, a mixture of anxiety and sadness raging inside him. He let his coffee go too cold to drink. George took a bite of his breakfast, but shook his head, set his plate aside. 

“I can’t— I’m sorry,” he murmured, and Matty just shook his head, set a hand on his forearm. 

There was a long moment of silence. 

“Are you nervous?” Matty asked after a long time. George sighed heavily in reply, which he assumed was a yes. And, why wouldn’t he be? He was getting married today, after all. 

They were running out of time. Matty watched the clock by his bed eating the minutes away. He kept getting closer and closer to losing George forever. 

But he wasn’t gone  _ yet _ . 

They showered together, pressed close under the hot water, relishing in these last few moments of closeness that they could actually spend together. For a moment he entertained the thought of this carrying on longer, but they both knew it had to end today. Last night had put a rift in both of their abilities to accept and let go, because it was true now, it was spoken, it was real. They loved each other. And that would be fine, but George was getting married today. 

Matty’s resolve cracked while they were in the shower. He was pressed up close to George, feeling the warmth coming off his skin for one last time, and his eyes were misty again, and he’d squeaked out another ‘I love you’. 

“I love you, too,” George murmured into his ear, his own voice strained and shaky, snaking a hand onto Matty’s waist and pulling him a little closer, swaying him gently. It was wrong. Matty was meant to be the one calming George’s nerves, not the other way around. He was supposed to be the strong one. He supposed a few moments of weakness muffled against George’s shoulder couldn’t hurt. 

They dressed in silence. Matty had to keep his eyes trained on the floor so that he wasn’t tempted to steal a glance at George’s suit as he changed into it, and so that he wasn’t tempted to sneak a glance at  _ George  _ while he changed — he was meant to be trying to distance himself, trying to wean himself off George altogether. 

It felt like a futile hope. Matty needed George like he needed air. 

“You look beautiful,” he murmured softly as George turned to him, fully dressed in his navy suit.

He did. He looked stunning. Matty crossed the room to him and held out both hands. George took them. His eyes were glassy. They kissed desperately, hands fisted in one another’s lapels. It was too much like what could have been for Matty to stomach it. He could have been the one feeling nervously excited on this morning, waiting to marry the love of his life. They should have stood in their suits holding hands like this in front of everyone they knew. 

But that wasn’t going to happen. Matty had to mentally scold himself over and over. That wasn’t going to happen. George chose  _ her _ . 

Matty almost crashed the car several times on the way to the event hall, almost all by accident. His eyes kept blurring with tears. He kept thinking, if he tuned off their route, and the two of them left right now with nothing but the clothes on their backs and tried to run away, how far would they get? Would George let him drive them to God only knew where? Would he get angry when Matty missed their turning and took them off somewhere new? Would he ever mention the wedding again, or would they be able to start a new, quiet life somewhere different, as if none of this had ever happened?

He didn’t miss their turning. He drove them straight to the front of the venue. He was a good best man. A good best friend. They sat in silence in the car for a very long time. Matty could see the flowers outside. There were balloons. This was happening. It was real. George was getting married. They were going to walk in there and George was going to get married. They were going to walk in there and Matty was going to lose him forever. 

He was convinced he was going to be sick. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, voice thick with the tears he was holding back. “It’s not too late to back out.”

It was a hopeless thought, that George might possibly want to give up on his wedding and run away with him. Matty still had a stupid glimmer of hope. 

“No,” George said, as expected, but it still hurt. “Can’t do that to her.”

Matty bit his tongue and nodded. Of course. How could he? He chose her. 

This was the end. Once they stepped out of this car, it was over. Matty wished there was something more that he could do, wished there was a way for him to somehow find more time. Just one hour more. Just another few minutes. Just one last night with George.

But their time was running out. They could not sit here in this car forever. 

George leaned across the console and put his hand on Matty’s knee. Matty took it, and squeezed hard. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” he said, though he wasn’t sure which one of them he was speaking to. George nodded, squeezed his hand back. “I… fuck, I love you.”

Matty’s voice was catching on his tears already. He couldn’t look at George at all, or he knew he would start sobbing. He had to be strong now, had to be the strong one today, for George. 

“I love you, Matty,” George murmured, and Matty could tell he was also fighting tears. A quiet sob escaped him; he clamped his free hand over his mouth. George shushed him, pulled on his arm. “C’mere.”

They leaned over the console and held each other, neither ever wanting to ever let go. Matty squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in George’s shoulder, trying to imprint the memory of this moment into his brain forever. George’s warmth. George’s smell. George. 

Their time was running out. Matty didn’t want to lose him. Pain flared up in his chest like something had been ripped out of him and set alight. He was sobbing now, crying into George’s shoulder. He didn’t want to go, he didn’t want to get out of the car, he didn’t want to lose George forever. He wanted to be George’s, wanted George to be his for the rest of their lives. They could run away now, there was still time, they could have that quiet life together somewhere else, if Matty could just— 

George was pulling away from him. No, no,  _ no _ . This wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening. Matty was dreaming. He was having a nightmare. George cupped the side of his face, wiped a tear away with the side of his thumb. So much for being the strong one. 

“Can I kiss you?” he said, and Matty nodded minutely. Their last kiss. The last time he would ever kiss George. The only person he ever wanted to kiss for the rest of his life. 

It wasn’t a heated kiss. Not intense, not hungry, but desperate in it’s own way. Searing. Matty felt that it would be burned onto his skin for the rest of time. When their lips parted, they stayed close just for a few moments, foreheads resting together. Matty was trembling. He didn’t want to go inside. 

But then George pulled away from him and said, “We’ll be late,” and he was right. 

Matty looked at the clock. They already were late. 

He swallowed thickly, set his teeth, and put his hand on the door handle. 

It was time to go inside, time for him to finally, once and for all, lose George forever.

*

The wait as they stood at the altar was the most agonising of Matty’s life. 

He kept begging for something to change, for something to be different, something that, even if it wouldn’t stop the wedding, might postpone it at least, give them a little more time.  _ Please, God, whatever God was out there, universe, stars, stone at the bottom of the garden, let the roof fall in. Let the whole place go up in smoke. Let someone stumble out into the aisle and drop dead. Let Matty drop dead right now, so that he never had to live a moment where George wasn’t his.  _

But none of that happened. They just stood up there and the time went round and Matty stared at the side of George’s face and wished he could kiss him again, one last time. The tears had stopped once they walked in. Matty’s head was pounding from trying to hold them back, the pressure behind his eyes so immense that he felt like he was going to burst. But he couldn’t cry, not yet, not until he could make up some lie about how beautiful George and his new wife were together to justify it. _ His wife. George and his wife. _ The word made Matty taste something sour. His stomach was a pit again, a raging storm that swallowed up everything inside him and just left a void.

This, he realised, was the closest he would ever get to standing at an altar with George. Both of them in their suits, stood at the front of the hall, waiting for her to arrive. Instead of seeing his whole face, Matty could just see the side. Instead of holding his hands, Matty was holding his rings. 

They would never get that. This was the closest Matty would ever have. He had to keep reminding himself harshly, and every time it was like someone taking a bite out of his heart.

Because he chose her. He chose her. He chose her.

The big, wide doors opened. Matty felt every last ounce of hope leaving his body as he saw her appear there, perfectly sillouhetted against the light streaming in from outside. She was here. She was going to marry George. This was it; Matty’s life was ending before his very eyes. Every step she took, in her beautiful, white dress, brought him one tiny bit closer. 

The tears started then. Not because of how beautiful she looked — and she did look stunning, perfectly made up, beaming brighter than the blue sky — not because of how happy he was for them, because this was the end. The best thing he’d ever had was gone. George was gone. Right here, in real time, Matty had to witness, for the biggest and most final time, the fact that George chose her. 

As those big double doors opened, George looked down the aisle with hope bubbling under his skin. His whole body was electric, on fire with anticipation, because he remembered what he’d told himself all those millions of times. It was hurting, now, the thought of getting married, because he was losing Matty, he was leaving Matty, and the thought of not having him anymore, no longer being his, left a crater in George’s chest, a hole in his heart. But, he had told himself so many times, it would be different once he was married. He was going to fall in love with her all over again, once he saw her today, all dressed up, and all the tension of planning a wedding melted away. He would be left with nothing but love for her, because  _ he did love her, _ and once he saw her in her dress today, he would fall in love all over again. 

And then those big double doors opened. He saw her — in her pretty dress and her expensive hair and makeup and her bright, wide smile — and there was nothing there. 

He closed his eyes and opened them again, and there was nothing there. All of the hope drained out of his body. All of the certainty left him in a great cloud of smoke that left his entire form empty, a shaking void of disbelief and denial. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t fucking happening. He was watching her come down the aisle, and she was smiling so wide, and his body was smiling at her but his brain was screaming —  _ no, no, no! _ This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, he was supposed to see her and fall in love again, but he rubbed his eyes and found them to be teary and when he looked at her again there was still just  _ nothing _ . 

Then he glanced over his shoulder, and like always, right there by his side, there was Matty. George could see it now, as clear as day. He was making a mistake. He was doing the wrong thing. He shouldn’t be marrying her. 

It was too late now.

She was standing in front of him. Everyone they knew sat down. He looked at her, tried with every single fibre of his being to see her differently, but he couldn’t. She just looked normal to him. Just a woman he could pass on a normal day in the street. There was nothing there. He loved her, but he wasn’t in love with her. 

He was in love, but it wasn’t with her. 

Matty stood by and watched as it all crumbled down before his eyes. He watched them speak to each other, watched them recite their vows back and forth, bit his tongue and screamed inside his head when the officiant asked if there was anyone who knew of any reasons why they shouldn’t be married. He wanted to finally just let it all go, to scream and scream and scream until his lungs gave out that  _ he knew why! He knew why! _

He knew — because if they were married, it would kill him. If they were married, it would tear his heart from his chest and grind it to dust. If they were married, it would ruin everything, it would throw his whole life off balance, tilt his whole Earth on its axis. They couldn’t be married, because Matty  _ needed  _ George. He needed him in every single possible way; as a friend, as a creative partner, as a lover, as the piece which made him whole again. They couldn’t be married. They just couldn’t. 

But Matty stayed silent, and so then they were.

He stood there helplessly, in a fugue, as he watched them kiss. The tears streamed down his face unrelentingly. If it weren’t for the hundreds of eyes on them, his knees would give out and he would collapse onto the ground. His head was spinning. His hands were shaking. He wasn’t in control of his body, somebody else was piloting in from the outside, making him be still and smile and act like the inside of him wasn’t an entirely empty, dark mass. 

George was married. He was a husband. She was his wife. And now Matty was an afterthought, a memory, a what-once-was. It was over between them. Wordlessly, actionlessly, it was over. After ten years, it was over. 

And then, blissfully, the ceremony was over too. 

Matty watched George walk out with her. He forced himself to walk, to be normal. He forced himself to keep going until he was alone, in his car, alone for the first time since he’d picked George up yesterday. Truly alone for the first time in ten years. He didn’t even move to take up the keys, just stared at his steering wheel for a long, long time, and then finally, knocked loose by God only knew what, for the first time since he’d lost George, he took in a deep, shaky breath, and sobbed. 

*

“Smile, love!”

The voice came out of nowhere, snapping Matty into reality. He looked up from his dark glass of wine to find the owner of the voice: a woman he’d never met before sat herself down by his side. She was grinning widely, her shiny pink lips revealing almost jarringly straight, white teeth. 

“I’m sorry?” he said, not straining to make himself heard over the music and chatter around them. She rolled her eyes, but fondly.

“I said,” she raised her voice and cuffed him on the shoulder. “Smile! It might never happen.”

Matty wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. He didn’t know this woman — she was from George’s wife’s side. George’s  _ wife _ . The words made his stomach flip over. The pit inside him was no fuller after two glasses of wine, nor did the party atmosphere of the reception do anything to quell the aching sadness in his chest. He didn’t like parties at the best of times, but usually when he wanted to go and cry and stand in the corner, he would be able to go to George. George was his corner. But this time, he couldn’t go to George. George was with his  _ wife _ . If he weren’t bound to do a speech later on tonight, he would have already left, gone home and sobbed in his lonely bed. 

“It already has, actually,” he said finally in response. She was taken aback by this, clearly not expecting it, but undeterred, she carried on. 

“What’re you drinking?” She asked, toying with her own empty wine glass. Matty tried his best to smile at her politely; he was really not interested in making polite conversation. “I’ll buy you a fresh one.”

“Nothing,” he lied, clearly still holding his half-full glass of merlot. She rolled her eyes again and leaned in close to him, her voice dropping an octave. 

“You’re George’s mate,” she said. Matty couldn’t look at her. “Aren’t you?”

He didn’t reply, just waited, because she was clearly going somewhere with this. 

“I know all about you. What you’re like… With girls.”

Ah. That was what she wanted, then. He looked at her again, taking her in; she was pretty, and tall, with long legs and a nice body, and Matty was no stranger to getting off with people at parties like this, at weddings, even, and he knew as well as anybody that the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else. He seriously considered it for a moment, but when he thought about it properly — dragging her off to the toilets and fucking her against the wall — it made him feel uneasy. His stomach twisted.

Maybe, if he was going to fuck George out of his system, he would have to do it with another guy. He glanced around the room; there was a tall lad in a waistcoat standing by the wall. Matty tried to imagine kissing him, feeling the stubble on his face scratching against his neck, breathing in the distinctly male smell of his cologne, taking him into the bathroom and being the one pinned against the toilet wall, getting fucked messily and without enough slick, fast and risky, just how he used to like it, but that didn’t do anything for him either. 

He didn’t want sex. He wanted George. He wanted to cry and to scream and break things and cause a scene, or he wanted to leave quietly right now and wallow alone for the rest of the night. The girl was still looking at him. 

He muttered an apology, left his glass on the bar, stood up, and made a beeline for the door.

He didn’t know what he was feeling. He was utterly empty, yet so full, numb but also burning alive. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t cry. A headache was pounding in his temples, taking over his whole brain. The cold night air burned his lungs. 

He wanted George. A part of him was missing, ripped off, it was like he’d lost a limb. What did he have if he didn’t have George? It wasn’t the same as a breakup, wasn’t the same feeling as grief, because George was still here, and really, he was never Matty’s. He was always hers, first and foremost. Now, he was utterly hers. Because he chose her. 

He could still hear the noise from inside. It was gnawing into his skull like an ice pick. If he didn’t have to speak, he would leave right now. He could see his car from where he was standing by the door. Maybe he should call a taxi. 

The door opened again, and he didn’t look round to see who it was. He wasn’t really interested. He supposed it would probably look less suspicious for him to be stood out here if he was smoking, so he fished into his pocket and brought out his pack of cigarettes, held one between his lips as he fumbled for his lighter. 

“Can I bum one?”

The voice made him jump so much that he almost dropped his lighter. It was Ross’ voice, he knew without even looking, so he held the box out wordlessly. They lit up in silence. Matty could feel the weight of all the words they wanted to say hanging in the air. It made it hard to breathe. 

“How are you feeling?” Ross said after several long moments of silence. Matty shrugged and took another long drag, avoiding the question. 

“Shit,” he answered finally. His voice came out a lot smaller than he had intended. 

He sighed heavily, flicking ash onto the floor. There was so much they could say to each other. Ross knew how much this was eating him, he had the whole time. On that first night after George got engaged, Matty cried on Ross’ sofa until dawn. Ross was there to dry his tears when he’d all but had a breakdown about his speech, gently coaxed the paper from his hands and helped him calm down. Matty knew how many times Ross had talked to George, told him to really have a think about his choices, to sort it all out before someone got hurt. 

Someone got hurt. George thought about his choices, and then chose her. 

Matty dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and then stepped on it, grinding it out with his heel, and without even thinking, gravitated toward Ross, breathed in his second-hand smoke. The silence beside him was somehow more comfortable. 

He wasn’t George. He would never be George. He would never be anything even close to George. But he was comfortable. He was something extremely familiar on this day of new and scary experiences. 

“I’m scared,” Matty whispered, almost unbidden. It took them both by surprise, but as he'd done every time, Ross took it in his stride, and took Matty under his arm. His body was warm, and Matty tried to close his eyes and relax into his touch, but it wasn't right. He wasn't George. He could never be George. Never even close. 

They were silent for a long time. Matty wished he'd never said anything. 

"What are you scared of?" Ross asked finally. Matty sighed. 

Being alone. Losing George entirely, forever. Never being able to love anyone else the same way ever again. His whole life, his whole world, had centered around George. It wasn't his life, it was him and George's. They were joined at the hip, understood each other in every way. But things were different now, everything was different now. Matty's world had been rocked on its axis.

Because George chose her. 

Matty sighed. "Everything."

They fell back into silence again. Ross dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and stood on it. Matty watched the orange flickers die under his foot. 

He wasn’t sure exactly how long passed in between that moment and the next, but he knew that the emptiness felt much more pronounced now, in the dark, stood next to Ross, in the silence. However comfortable the silence may be, he was aware that it was never quite the most comfortable that a silence could be. There had been more comfortable silences.

That, he supposed, was the way his life would be from now on. He might love again, but it would never be as intense a love. There would always be more comfortable silences. 

Somebody else exited the building. It was a man Matty did not know. He glanced over his shoulder at him, and the man said, “Speeches. Five minutes. In case you didn’t want to miss them.”

Matty cursed. He felt sick. He looked up at Ross, who squeezed him one last time, told him it would be okay, and guided him inside. The man at the door said, “You two are a sweet couple.”

He was clearly a little inebriated. Matty ignored him and powered his way through the thick haze of embarrassment that permeated the air. 

Matty sold out arenas. He headlined festivals. He played shows to thousands upon thousands of people at a time. Somehow, he had never been more nervous than this moment. His own words fent foreign in his mouth as he murmured them aloud, all his jokes felt flat and unnecessary, all of his stories felt insignificant, despite the fact that, in his head, they were the most prominent and happy memories he had. 

He had to do this right. He had to do this  _ perfectly _ . He just had to do this, and then he could leave. But how could he fathom standing up in front of all of George’s family, a lot of their close friends, and the entire family of his new wife, none of whom he knew, and be strong while he gave this speech? 

As he read it over again, he felt like he was going to be sick. Every word felt too much like a thinly veiled  _ I love you _ . He was petrified that something, somewhere, would be too thinly veiled, and he would expose their secret to everyone here, put them both to shame, and ruin what little he had left with George forever. 

He gave his speech.

He was crying. When he looked over, George was crying too. At the end, people clapped, in that polite way people do, but George was looking up at him with shining eyes, and he stood up and wrapped Matty in the tightest, closest hug. Matty gripped the back of his jacket, leaned heavily into him, and tried not to actually sob.

They had to let go, and it felt to Matty like trying to step out of his skin. George’s face was wet with tears. Just before they parted properly, George gripped his shoulder and mouthed,  _ I love you _ . 

Matty’s tears started afresh. He didn’t sit back down. 

For the second time that night, he beelined straight for the door. He was sobbing before he even got outside, tailed by the floating words of somebody else. He clamped a hand over his mouth and stumbled out of the doors, thankfully the man from earlier was gone, because Matty could hardly stop himself from sobbing aloud as the doors shut behind him. His sobs wracked his entire body, made his stomach clench and his head spin, and he felt like he could never get the breath in fast enough before his body was forcing it out again. Now his speech was over, his duties were too, and according to his promise with himself, he could leave now. He definitely didn’t feel like engaging in a party anymore, especially not after this crying fit, because for the first time since this morning, it really, really hurt. It hurt more than it had ever hurt before; this time, it was vulgar, physical, knifelike, sickening. It was a brand new kind of pain and it was almost unbearable, because George truly didn’t need him anymore. He could leave now, he could slip away into the night, and George might not even notice he was gone. He might not notice for days and days. He might never notice — or worse, he might never care. And it hurt, it hurt worse than anything Matty had ever experienced before. 

Behind him, the door opened. He stood bolt upright and composed himself in a matter of seconds, swiping angrily at his eyes, forcing himself to breathe normally and act as if nothing was wrong, hoping whoever had just emerged would smoke their cigarette or have their moment of air or get in their car and then leave, so he could at least figure out what to do now without worrying about thinking too loud. 

Their footsteps kept coming towards him. Before they even stopped beside him, he knew it was George. 

Something unfamiliar and heavy settled in the air over them. Matty fucking hated it. They’d never been like this before. Nothing —  _ nothing _ , in more than a decade of knowing each other — had  _ ever  _ made them like this before. This silence was not comfortable. 

But it extended for a long, long time. It was inescapable. Matty wished he could find something to say, but he couldn’t. Finally, after several minutes of agonising silence, George sighed, and then said, “You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?”

He didn’t say it like a question. He said it almost like a command. Matty was sure his intentions were genuine, but it felt almost malicious for him to be out here, ordering Matty to be okay. He was angry with George even though he had absolutely no grounds to be. He didn’t feel like he would ever be okay again. His skin was still burning from where they’d touched earlier. He didn’t respond for a long time, then all he could manage came out cold and distant. 

“Of course,” he said, despite the tears in his voice, with absolute conviction. He was  _ angry _ . “Why wouldn’t I be?”

George bristled at that. Matty understood why, but couldn’t think of a single thing he could do or say to make it better. He’d already started digging himself into the hole. He shouldn’t be angry. 

Thankfully, they fell back into silence again. George glanced at him a few times, but he never stopped staring forwards, into the dark. He would leave soon. But for now he just stood here, paralysed by grief and fear, unsire of what to say, what to do, feeling sick because for the first time in his life, he wished George wasn’t there. This was wrong. Everything was wrong between them now. Matty wasn’t sure if it would ever be right again. 

Because, how could it? How could anything ever be right, when even they were like this? How could anything be right, because Matty could have sworn that the world would end and hell would freeze over before he was ever, ever uncomfortable around George. 

How could anything be right, when he chose her?

*

Despite Matty’s conviction that after the wedding, the world would end, months passed. Days and nights cycled; the weather started to change. Matty never really stopped aching. 

Just when he thought he was okay, something would come back to surprise him, and the wound would be ripped open again. He was always hurting, always bleeding, always dripping blood. It was the tiny things; being approached by a dog in public, coming up with a new idea for a track, someone screaming at him on twitter. All things he would usually spring to George with, and they would laugh about it or pore over ideas all night long, just easy, bouncing off each other. He had to keep reminding himself that he couldn’t just  _ do  _ that anymore.

They never lost the ability to work together, really. They still made music just the same as they always did, but for Matty, it was always laced with melancholy. He didn’t know if it was for George, too. He kept remembering the first time they’d kissed, dancing in his bedroom, all excited about music and the future and  _ George _ . Now when they finished a song or both had the same idea at the same time, they would grin and look at each other, and it would be like a light was switched off inside of both of them as they remembered. Things couldn’t be the same as before. From the outside, nothing looked different. Matty knew they were. 

He had tried, in vain, for a few weeks after the wedding, to get back on track, start living again. He was no stranger to one night stands and random hookups, and he could fairly successfully pick up a girl — or a guy — on Tinder and fuck them once or twice, until he got bored of them, because it was never the same. Nothing was as good, nothing held his attention, nothing made him feel even remotely close. He’d never been good at relationships; always been hesitant to commit, but that was because some part of him, he suspected, always knew there could be something better. Better sex. Happier mornings. More comfortable silences. 

He never managed to find a more comfortable silence.

He hated it. It was wrong. Things between him and George were supposed to be a very certain way, they had always been a very certain way, and now they weren’t anymore. And it wasn’t something that could be solved; Matty couldn’t fix it. There could be no remedial conversations or actions. There was no remedy. Matty was cursed to hurt like this forever. 

Recently, there was something wrong with George. His eyes were tired, and his laugh was seldom genuine. He had lost his lustre. Matty could see it, feel it itching under his skin for days after they were together. As his best friend — still, he hoped — he felt that it was his duty to ask what was wrong, to try and help, but every time he tried, he was overwhelmed by dread. He couldn’t place why, couldn’t explain it, couldn’t hope to understand why. He just knew that something was wrong with George. Every time he tried to ask about it, the words stuck in his mouth like glue. 

And then he got the text message. 

_ ‘Can I come over tonight? I want to talk to you about something’ _

Unsettling. Very jarring. It made Matty’s heart stutter, his stomach clenching with dread. Of course, he said yes, but for the rest of the day, he could hardly breathe. This was that same dread he’d felt every time he wanted to ask George about what was eating him. He had a feeling he’d find out tonight. 

George turned up at his door with a bottle of wine. This was slightly too familiar to before for Matty’s liking. It was the first time George had been to his flat since the night before the wedding; at first, it had hurt too much to be alone with him. Now, it was a defence mechanism. He couldn’t be hurt again if he didn’t let George get close enough. 

But now, he was here, and he was pouring Matty a glass of red and giving him a look that he struggled to recognise. He looked like a guilty puppy. Matty took the glass from him and avoided his eyes. 

George sat him down in the living room. There was something close to tension between them, but it wasn’t like that. There was no such thing as tension. It was a heaviness — a mutual knowledge of mutual pain, and the heavy sting of words unsaid. George was nervous, Matty could tell. He kept fidgeting with his hands; for the first time since he’d arrived, Matty became aware of them. He tried to ignore the way his heart leapt when he saw them to be bare. 

“I just…” George began, then cut himself off, shaking his head. His eyes were shining, and Matty reached across to him, set a hand on his knee. 

“Don’t force it. Take as long as you need.”

Just touching him felt foreign. That wasn’t right. Matty had missed the heat of him. George always ran hot, as long as he’d known him. 

He swallowed thickly and put his glass down, swiped at his eyes. Matty wished there was something he could to to make it hurt less — whatever it was.

His heart was racing. He could feel it in his throat, in his fingertips. Whatever George was going to tell him now was going to rock his world again — he could feel it, like lightning in the air, about to strike. George took a deep, slow breath, and Matty tried not to watch the way his body straightened from it. 

“I just wanted to tell you” he said, slightly steadier this time, “that it’s… finished. It’s over. We’re— she’s— yeah.”

Matty had expected the roof to fall in. He’d expected his heart to stop. He’d expected it to come crumbling in even further, for George to ruin him a little bit more with whatever news he had tonight. But instead, his words made the smoke clear. The fog disappeared from Matty’s head. Something clicked. 

They looked each other in the eye. George’s were teary and tired; Matty’s probably were too. He struggled for a long time to think of what to say, but then George carried on. 

“She knew,” he said. “She’d always… known, I think. She just said it one day. Told me. That she knew, I mean. She said we shouldn’t pretend anymore. I think she meant us, you know, me and her, but she could have meant…”

George trailed off, looking down into his glass of wine. He sighed heavily, tearily. Matty picked up his train of thought, because they could always do that, and said, “Me and you?”

George nodded. He wiped his eyes again and sighed — Matty fucking hated this. He wanted to thow himself at George right now, to kiss him breathless as if they’d never left off. He wanted everything to become the same again, except without the dancing around, without the fear, without messing about with other girls. He wanted to be George’s. He wanted George to be his. 

“Yeah,” George murmured after a long stretch of quiet. “Me and you. We don’t— I mean, I wasn’t— I didn’t come here to try and win you back or anything. It’s been a long time, you could have anybody you wanted — I’m sure you  _ do  _ have someone, I just… I think, with everything… you deserved to know.”

Matty’s eyes misted up then. He sat there for a moment, still, trying to figure out how to take all of the love he had inside him and put it all with George, right now. He sighed, dabbing at his eyes with his fingers. 

“Thank you,” he choked, voice thick with tears. “For telling me.”

They fell back into silence, then. Matty wanted to  _ say it. _ He wanted to say it over and over and over again. They had gone months without it, and years before that, and he had so much lost time to make up for, he just wanted to say it, to tell George over and over and over so that he could never doubt it’s truth. 

He bit his tongue. Now wasn’t the time. 

But it was him being scared that got them into this mess. Him not saying it got them into this mess. It was his fault they were here, like this, both teary and trembling, and if he didn’t say it now, he never would. He would lose his nerve for it. He had all of this love, and now, a chance to put it were it belonged. 

“I love you,” he said simply, looking at George head-on. He was sick of being fucking scared. He was sick of pretending it wasn’t true. He loved him. He’d always loved him. 

George was quiet for a long, agonizing moment. He was avoiding Matty’s eyes. 

“I know I fucked up,” he said finally, and it almost hurt Matty to hear.  _ No _ , he wanted to say. _ You didn’t. You could never even hope to. _ “And I hurt you. And I’m sorry. I’m so, so fucking sorry, Matty, I can’t put into words how sorry I am. But I want… I want to try again. I want to do it properly. I want to be yours, if you’ll have me.”

Matty’s face broke into a smile. He shook his head fondly, wiping at his teary eyes, and George looked worried, but then he stood up and crossed the living room to him, and George stood too, and they were stood in one another’s spaces for all of two seconds before Matty reached up to cup the side of his face and whispered, “Oh, you dickhead. Of course I’ll have you.”

George smiled down at him. It was a sunset: Matty had seen it a million times, but it was still the most beautiful thing in the world. He leaned up, still holding George’s face, and kissed him, and for the first time since the wedding — since before the wedding, since George got engaged — he felt utterly right. This was right. So many things had been wrong before now, so much had felt wrong between them recently, but  _ this _ , this was right. 

They ordered a pizza and ate the whole thing. They finished the bottle of wine and got halfway through a second one. Matty curled up against George’s side on the sofa and they stayed awake well into the night watching crap telly. It was like nothing had changed, because they were never awkward around each other, and this could be no exception. It was just the same as any other time, because always, without fail, the girls came and went, and George stayed. And Matty loved him. And George loved him back. George had taken his love, and put it where it belonged, with its rightful owner; with Matty. 

As he laid there that night, nestled in George’s arms, he thanked whatever was out there for being so merciful, for bringing them back to each other. Perhaps it was always inevitable; no matter the tangles and twists in the red string, it always tied them to each other. But everything just felt so right now. It was like his world had been righted on its axis again. It wouldn’t be perfect, there would still be moments that were hard and times that were less than perfect, but he was confident that it didnt’t matter what came at them, they would be able to get over it and move on. Because they had each other. Because they loved each other. 

Everything would be okay, because this time, George chose Matty. 

**Author's Note:**

> like this? [i run an ask blog on tumblr where i write on request.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ply-mrs) @ply-mrs come say hi!


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